-* 


ft  Al?*' 


Wte-i 


She  sat  alone  now,  gazing  out  across  the  hills. 

[Page  312] 


THE 

WAY  OUT 


BY 


EMERSON  HOUGH 


McKinlay,  Stone  &  Mackenzie 

NEW    YORK 


COFTKIGHT.    1918.    BT 

EMERSON  HOUGH 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


To 

JAMES  ALEXANDER  BURNS 

Prophet  of  His  People 


28V6 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    The  Law  and  the  Gospel    ....  3 

II.    A  New  Creed 18 

III.  The  Blood  Covenant 30 

IV.  The  Frolic  at  Semmes'  Cove    ...  41 
V.    The  Awakening  of  David  Joslin    .  50 

VI.    The  Wandering  Women      ....  58 

VII.    The  Fabric  of  a  Vision 67 

VIII.    Marcia    Haddon,    and    the    Merry 

Wife  of  Windsor       72 

IX.    Polly  Pendleton 92 

X.    Mr.  Haddon's  Point  of  View    ...  117 

XI.    Polly  Pendleton's  Visitor      .    .    .  123 

XII.    The  Straight  and  Narrow  Way    .  133 

BOOK  II 

XIII.  The  Clans 141 

XIV.  The  Crossroads 154 

XV.    The  Original  Sin    ,..,,,,  170 


CHAPTER 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 


XXI. 

XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 

XXVIII. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  III 

PAGE 

The  City  on  the  Hill 181 

These  Twain 191 

Marcia  Haddon 209 

The  Narrows 215 

The  Coming  of  James  Haddon     .    .  227 

BOOK  IV 

The  Furrin  Woman 233 

When  Ghosts  Arise ,  244 

Granny  Williams'  Narrations    .    .  255 

The  Drums 275 

Strangers  within  the  Gates    .    .     .  281 

The  Uncertified 291 

The  Seeking 299 

The  Education  of  David  Joslin    .    .  306 


BOOK   I 


THE  WAY  OUT 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

HUSH !  Stop  it,  Davy.  He's  a-comin' !" 
The  old  woman  who  spoke — a  wrinkled 
dame  she  was,  bowed  down  by  years  and 
infirmity,  her  face  creased  by  a  thousand  grimed-in, 
wrinkled  lines — moved  with  an  odd  sprightliness  as 
she  stepped  across  the  floor.  She  placed  a  hand  upon 
the  shoulder  of  the  young  man  whom  she  accosted, 
standing  between  him  and  the  door  of  the  little  cabin 
of  which  they  were  the  only  occupants. 

The  young  man  turned  toward  her,  smiling  half 
dreamily.  He  was  a  tall  man,  as  his  outstretched  legs, 
one  crossed  over  the  other,  would  attest;  a  man  well 
developed,  muscular  and  powerful.  His  gray  eyes 
seemed  now  half  a-dream,  his  wide  mouth  fixed  itself 
in  pleasant  lines,  so  that  he  seemed  far  away,  some- 
where in  the  lands  to  which  music  offers  access.  For 
now  he  had  been  engaged  in  the  production  of  what 
perhaps  might  have  been  called  music.  It  was  an  old 
ballad  tune  he  had  been  playing  on  his  violin,  and  but 

8 


THE   WAY   OUT 

now  his  grandam  had  joined  in  high  and  cracking 
treble  on  the  old  air  of  "Barbara  Allen,"  known  time 
out  of  mind  in  these  hills.  It  was  the  keener  ear 
of  the  old  won  h  first  had  caught  warning  of 

approrchi:;;;  (kinder. 

"Tal  ,   I  say!"  she  repeated,  and  shook  him 

impatiently.  "I  tell  ye  I  heerd  him  come  in  at  the 
lower  gate.  He'll  be  here  direckly.  Git  shet  of  that 
fiddle,  boy!" 

She  bent  on  him  a  pair  of  deep-set  hazel  eyes,  sharp 
as  those  of  some  wild  creature.  Her  voice  had  in  it 
a  half-masculine  dominance.  Every  movement  of  her 
stooped  and  broken  body  bespoke  a  creature  full  of 
resolution,  fearless,  fierce. 

"Gawd  knows  why  he's  back  so  soon,"  she  went  on, 
"but  he's  here.  Give  him  time  to  turn  old  Molly  loose 
and  git  a  few  years  of  corn,  an*  he'll  be  right  in. 
Onct  he  hears  that  fiddle  he'll  raise  trouble,  that's 
what  he'll  do.  I  reckon  I  know  a  preacher,  an'  most 
of  all  yore  daddy.  For  him  thar  hain't  nothin'  sin- 
f uller'n  a  riddle ;  he's  pizen  on  'em — all  preachers  is — 
him  wust  of  all.  What  does  he  know  about  music? 
Now,  if  he  was  French  an'  Irish,  like  me,  it  mought 
be  different.     But  then " 

"I  kain't  hep  it,  Granny,"  said  the  young  man,  still 
slowly,  still  unchanged,  his  fingers  still  trailing  across 
the  strings.  "  'Barbara  Allen' — do  ye  call  that  wicked, 
even  on  a  Sunday?    Besides,  this  is  the  fust  time  I've 

4 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

ever  strung  this  fiddle  up  full.  I  couldn't  git  the 
strings  till  jest  now.     Melissa  says " 

"Never  mind  what  Meliss'  says  neither — she's  a 
trifiin'  sort,  even  if  she  is  yore  own  wife.  For  all 
that,  ye'd  orter  be  home  this  minute,  like  enough." 

"As  if  ye  understood!"  said  the  young  man,  sigh- 
ing now  and  dropping  the  instrument  to  his  knee.  For 
the  first  time  a  shade  of  sadness  crossed  his  face,  giv- 
ing to  his  features  a  certain  sternness  and  masculine 
vigor. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  understand,  Davy?  Listen — ye 
hain't  for  these  hills.  Ye're  a  throw-back  somehow, 
ye  don't  belong  here.  I  say  that,  though  yore  daddy 
is  my  own  son.  Don't  I  know  him — he'd  skin  us 
alive  if  he  found  us  two  here  fiddlin'  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  He  certainly  would  shake  us  out  over  hell 
fire,  boy!  When  he  gits  started  to  exhortin'  and 
damnin'  around  here,  he  certainly  is  servigerous.  Ye 
know  that.     Hist,  now!" 

The  young  man  himself  now  heard  the  sound  of 
heavy  footsteps  slopping  on  the  sodden  earth,  the  slam 
of  the  slat  gate's  wooden  latch  as  someone  entered. 
There  followed  the  stamp  of  heavy  feet  on  the  broken 
gallery,  where  evidently  someone  was  stopping  for  an 
instant  to  kick  off  the  mud. 

Before  the  newcomer  could  enter  the  young  man 
arose,  and  with  one  stride  gained  the  opening  that 
led  up  to  the  loose-floored  loft  of  the  single-storied 

5 


THE   WAY   OUT 

log  house.  He  reached  up  a  long  arm  and  laid  the 
offending  fiddle  back  out  of  sight  upon  the  floor. 

Just  as  he  turned  there  entered  the  person  against 
whose  advent  he  had  been  warned — a  tall  man,  large 
of  frame,  bushy  and  gray-white  of  hair  and  as  to  a 
beard  whose  strong,  close-set  growth  gave  him  a  look 
of  singular  fierceness.  As  he  stood  he  might  have 
seemed  fifty  years  old.  In  reality  he  was  past  seventy. 
The  young  man  who  faced  him  now — his  son — was 
twenty-eight.  A  stalwart  breed  this,  housed  here  in 
this  cabin  in  a  cove  of  the  ancient  Cumberlands.  The 
old  dame  who  stood  now,  her  eyes  turning  from  one 
to  the  other,  would  never  see  her  ninetieth  birthday 
again. 

Andrew  Joslin,  commonly  known  through  these 
half-dozen  mountain  communities  where  he  rode  cir- 
cuit as  "Preacher  Joslin,"  stood  now  in  the  door  of 
his  own  home  and  looked  about  him  with  his  accus- 
tomed sternness — a  sternness  always  more  intense 
upon  the  Lord's  Day.  A  somber,  dour  nature,  that 
of  this  mountain  minister,  whose  main  mission  in  life 
was  to  proclaim  the  wrath  of  God.  A  man  of  yea, 
yea,  and  nay,  nay,  one  must  have  said  who  saw  him 
standing  now,  his  gray  eyes  looking  out  fiercely, 
searchingly,  beneath  his  bushy  brows. 

"What  ye  been  doin'  ?"  he  asked  suspiciously  now. 
indifferently  of  the  old  woman,  his  mother,  and  the 
stalwart  young  man,  his  own  son.     "What  ye  doin* 

6 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

here,   David?     Why  hain't  ye  home?     Why  hain't 
ye  at  church  to-day,  like  ye'd  orter  be  ?" 

"Thar's  no  sarvices  nowhars  near  here,  an*  ye 
know  it,  Andrew,"  said  the  old  woman  somewhat 
querulously. 

"Thar  kin  be  sarvices  anywhar  whar  a  few  is  geth- 
ered  together  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  Ye  two  right 
here  could  hold  sarvices  for  the  glory  of  God,  if  so 
as  ye  wanted  to." 

Neither  made  answer  to  him,  and  he  went  on: 

"David,  have  ye  read  all  of  that  thar  book  I  give 
ye?  Ye'd  orter  git  some  good  outen  Calvin's  Insti- 
tutes. Ye'll  maybe  be  a  preacher  some  time  like  yore 
daddy." 

"Well,  daddy,  I  done  tried  to  read  her.  I  set  up  all 
one  night  with  Preacher  Cuthbertson  from  over  in 
Owsley,  an'  we  both  read  sever'l  chapters  in  them 
Institutes.  Hit  was  nigh  about  midnight  when  we 
both  went  to  sleep,  an'  atter  I'd  went  to  sleep  he  done 
shuk  me  by  the  shoulder  an'  woke  me  up,  an'  he  says 
to  me,  'David,  David,  I've  been  thinkin'  over  them 
Institutes  so  hard  ...  I  believe  they've  injured  my 
mind'  r 

The  young  man  broke  into  a  wide-mouthed  smile  as 
he  made  this  recountal.  But  it  was  a  thundercloud 
of  wrath  upon  the  face  of  his  father  which  greeted 
such  levity. 

"Ye  wasn't  reverent!"  he  blazed.     "Ye  was  2m- 
7 


THE   WAY   OUT 

pyous,  both  of  ye.  Injure  his  mind — why,  that  feller 
Cuthbertson  never  had  no  mind  fer  to  injure.  That's 
what  ails  him.  The  book  of  John  Calvin  is  one  of  the 
greatest  books  in  the  world.  What'll  folks  like  ye 
and  Preacher  Cuthbertson  be  up  an*  sayin'  next  ?  An* 
I'd  set  ye  apart  for  the  ministry,  too,  allowin'  I  could 
git  ye  some  schoolin'  atter  a  while,  somewhars." 

He  turned  from  them  both,  and  stood  a  little  apart, 
his  brows  drawn  down  into  a  scowling  frown. 

"How  come  ye  come  home  so  soon,  Andrew  ?" 
asked  his  mother  now.  "We  wasn't  expectin'  ye 
back — ye  told  me  ye  was  a-goin'  over  to  Leslie  to 
preach  a  couple  days  on  the  head  of  Hell-fer-Sartin. 
But  ye  only  left  yisterday." 

"Hit's  none  yore  business  how  I  got  back  so  soon," 
replied  the  old  man  savagely.  "I  don't  have  to  account 
to  no  one  what  I  do." 

He  turned  about  now  moodily.  In  his  great  hand 
he  still  clutched  the  heavy  umbrella  which  he  carried, 
its  whalebone  ribs  and  cotton  cover  dripping  rivulets. 
A  step  or  two  brought  him  to  the  opening  in  the  loft 
floor,  where  he  reached  up  to  place  the  wet  umbrella 
out  of  the  way.  As  he  did  so  his  hand  struck  some 
other  object  hidden  there.  He  grasped  it  and  drew 
it  down — and  stood,  his  face  fairly  contorted  with 
surprise  and  anger. 

It  was  his  son's  violin  which  now  he  clutched  in  his 
gnarled  and  bony  hand.    As  he  regarded  it  the  emotion 

8 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

on  his  face  was  as  much  that  of  horror  as  aught  else. 
A  violin,  an  instrument  of  hell,  here  in  his  house — his 
house — a  chosen  minister  of  God! 

"What's  this?"  he  demanded  at  length.  "Tell  me— 
how  come  this  thing  here — in  my  house !" 

With  one  stride  now — tearing  away  all  the  strings 
of  the  instrument  with  one  grasp  of  his  hand  as  he 
did  so — he  flung  the  offending  violin  full  upon  the 
flames  in  the  fireplace,  sweeping  from  him  with  an 
outward  thrust  of  his  great  arm  the  tall  figure  of  his 
son,  who  impulsively  stepped  forward  to  save  his 
cherished  instrument.  As  for  the  wrinkled  old  woman, 
she  stood  arrested  in  an  attitude  as  near  approaching 
fear  as  any  she  ever  had  evinced.  She  knew  the  fierce 
temper  of  both  these  men. 

But  the  young  man,  the  equal  in  height  of  his  par- 
ent, his  superior  in  strength,  stayed  his  own  impulse 
and  lowered  the  clenched  hand  he  had  raised.  Filial 
obedience,  after  all,  was  strong  in  his  heart. 

"That's  whar  it  belongs !"  exclaimed  the  older  man, 
his  eyes  flashing.  "In  hell  fire  is  whar  all  them  things 
belongs,  an'  the  critters  that  fosters  'em.  My  own 
flesh  an'  blood !  O  Lord  God,  lay  not  up  this  against 
thy  sarvent ! 

"Ye  have  sinned  against  the  Lord,"  he  began,  ex- 
cited now  in  something  of  the  religious  fervor  which 
had  had  no  expenditure  of  late.  He  thrust  a  long, 
bony  finger  towards  his  son.     "Ye  an'  yore  granny 

9 


THE   WAY   OUT 

both  have  sinned.  To  Adam  was  give  the  grace  of 
perse  verm'  in  good  if  he  choosed.  Adam  had  the 
power  if  he  had  the  will,  but  not  the  will  that  he 
mought  have  the  power.  It  was  give  to  all  of  us  sub- 
serquents  to  have  both  the  will  an'  the  power  fer  to 
obstain  from  sin.  But  have  ye  two  obstained?  Look 
at  that  thing  a-quoilin'  up  in  hell.  That's  what  comes 
to  them  that  fosters  evil  when  they  have  both  the  will 
an'  the  power,  an'  don't  use  neither." 

They  stood  looking  at  him  silently,  and  he  went  on, 
still  more  excited. 

"Ye  have-ah — tempted  of  the  Lord,"  he  intoned. 
"Ye  have  forgot  the  holy  commandments  of  the  Lord- 
ah!  Ye  have  sinned  in  the  sight  of  God  on  the  holy 
Sabbath  day-ah!  Ye  have  kivered  up  yore  sin  from 
me,  the  sarvent  of  the  Lord-ah !  Ye  have  plotter  agin 
me.  Ye  have  no  grace,  fer  grace  is  not  offered  by 
the  Lord  to  be  either  received  or  rejected — it  is  grace 
that  perjuces  both  the  will  an'  the  choice  in  the  heart 
of  man.  But  whar  air  the  subserquent  good  works  of 
grace?  Ye  don't  show  them.  Ye  nuvver  had  no 
grace,  neither  one  of  ye!  The  both  of  ye  will  quoil 
in  hell  like  that  thing  than" 

"Tell  me" — he  turned  now  to  the  old  dame — 
"was  he  a-fiddlin'  here  in  my  house  on  the  Lord's 
day?" 

"Yes,  he  war,  an'  it  hain't  the  first  time !"  exclaimed 
the  old  woman.     "I  don't  keer  who  knows  it.     He 

10 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

war  a-playin'  'Barbara  Allen'  here,  an*  I  war  a-singin' 
to  it.  Now  ye  know  it,  an*  what  air  ye  goin'  to  do 
about  it?" 

For  a  moment  the  three  stood  in  tableau,  strong, 
yet  sad  enough.  Then  the  fierce  soul  of  the  old  man 
flamed  yet  more. 

"Disgrace  me — in  my  own  house !  Out  of  my  house, 
ye,  an'  never  darken  its  doors  agin!  Yore  wife  and 
children  need  ye  plenty  'thout  ye  comin'  up  here, 
fiddlin'  in  a  preacher's  house  on  Sunday." 

"Do  ye  mean  that,  daddy?"  asked  the  young  man 
quietly.  "Do  ye  reelly  mean  that?  Maybe  ye'd 
better  think  it  over." 

"I  don't  have  to  think  it  over,"  retorted  the  other. 
"Begone !    Don't  nuvver  come  here  again." 

"I  reckon  I'll  go  too,"  said  the  grandam,  reaching 
out  a  skinny  arm  for  the  sunbonnet  on  its  peg  at  the 
door. 

"Ye'll  do  nothin'  of  the  sort,"  replied  her  son 
savagely.  "Ye  belong  here.  Let  him  go.  I  sont  his 
mother  outen  the  same  door  onct." 

"I  know  ye  did,  Andrew,"  she  replied,  her  fierce 
eyes  untamed  as  she  faced  him.  "An'  as  good  a  wom- 
ern  as  ever  was  in  the  world  when  she  started,  ontel  ye 
cowed  her  an'  abused  her,  an'  sont  her  down  the  river 
— ye  know  whar,  an'  ye  know  into  what.  Ye  kin 
preach  till  ye're  daid,  and  shake  me  over  hell  fire  all 
ye  like,  but  ye  kain't  change  me,  an'  ye  kain't  scare 

11 


THE  WAY   OUT 

me,  an*  ye  know  it  almighty  well.  I'll  stay  here,  an' 
I'll  go  when  I  git  ready,  an'  ye  know  that." 

"Go  on,  Davy."  She  turned  to  the  young  man  who 
stood,  gray  and  silent,  his  hand  upon  the  half-opened 
door.  "Take  him  at  his  word,  an'  don't  ye  nuvver 
come  back  here  agin.  If  ye  hain't  happy  in  yore  own 
home,  git  outen  these  mountings — git  somewhars  else. 
No  matter  what  ye  do,  ye  kain't  do  worsen  what  ye're 
doin'  here.  \e  know  that  yore  maw  nuvver  flickered 
afore  him — nor  yore  granny  neither — an'  don't  ye." 

The  gray  old  man  stood  silent,  at  bay,  in  the  center 
of  the  squalid  little  room — a  room  cluttered  up  with 
heavy,  home-made  chairs,  a  pair  of  corded  bedsteads,  a 
low  board  table;  an  interior  lighted  now  in  the  ap- 
proaching gloom  of  evening  by  nothing  better  than 
the  log  fire  on  the  deep-worn  hearth.  It  was  an  old, 
old  room  in  an  old,  old  house.  The  threshold  of  the 
door,  renewed  no  man  might  say  how  often,  was  worn 
yet  again  to  the  bottom.  Its  hinges  of  wood  were 
again  worn  half  in  two.  The  floor,  made  of  puncheons 
once  five  inches  thick,  hewn  by  a  hand-adze  two  gen- 
erations ago  from  some  giant  poplar  tree,  now 
worn  almost  as  smooth  as  glass  by  the  polishing  of 
bare  feet — puncheons  more  than  a  yard  wide  each  as 
they  lay  here  on  the  ancient  floor  beams.  A  pair  of 
windows,  once  owning  glass,  partially  lighted  the  room, 
and  there  were  two  doors,  one  standing  ajar  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  room  making  upon  a  covered  pas- 

12 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

sageway  which  led  to  a  second  cabin.  In  this  usually 
went  forward,  it  might  be  supposed,  the  cooking  opera- 
tions of  the  place,  such  as  they  were. 

At  length  the  old  woman  stepped  to  the  side  of  the 
fireplace  and  kicked  together  the  ends  of  the  logs. 
A  faint  flame  arose,  now  lighting  up  the  interior  of 
this  half -savage  abode.  It  showed  all  the  better  the 
tall  form  of  the  young  man  at  the  door.  He  spoke 
no  more.  With  one  last  glance  straight  at  the  face  of 
his  father,  he  turned  and  passed  out  into  the  dusk. 

The  old  man,  suddenly  trembling,  now  cast  himself 
into  a  chair  before  the  fire  and  sat  staring  into  the 
flickering  flames. 

"Whar's  my  supper?"  he  demanded  hoarsely  after  a 
time. 

'Thar  hain't  none  ready,  an'  ye  know  it,"  said  his 
mother.  "If  I'd  a-knowed  ye  war  a-comin'  back  I 
mought  have  got  something  ready.    What  made  ye?" 

"Hit  war  the  Lord's  will,"  he  rejoined.  "I've  met 
causes  sufficient.  The  Lord  brung  me  back  to  find  out 
what  was  a-goin'  on  here,  I  reckon.  The  Sabbath, 
too!" 

"Hit's  no  worse  one  day  than  another,"  said  his 
mother.  "Ye've  druv  yore  own  son  outen  yore  own 
house.  He's  got  no  house  of  his  own  to  go  to,  to  speak 
of — God  knows  thar's  little  enough  to  keep  him  thar, 
that's  shore.  Thar's  little  enough  to  keep  any  of  us 
here,  come  to  that." 

13 


THE  WAY   OUT 

Her  attitude  certainly  was  not  that  of  shrinking  or 
fear.  Granny  Joslin  was  known  far  and  wide  through 
these  mountains  as  the  fightingest  of  the  fighting  Jos- 
lins ;  and  that  was  saying  much. 

"Womern,  womern!"  The  old  preacher  raised  a 
hand  in  protest.  There  was  a  sort  of  weakening  in 
his  face  and  his  attitude,  a  sort  of  quavering  in  his 
voice. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him — looked  at  the  floor 
where  his  chair  sat  before  the  fireplace.  Beside  the 
drip  of  the  old  umbrella  there  was  another  stain  spread- 
ing on  the  floor  now — darker  than  that  which  first 
had  marked  it;  a  stain  which  seemed  to  have  dark- 
ened his  garments  and  to  have  caked  on  his  heavy, 
homemade  shoes. 

"What's  that,  Andy?"  she  asked  imperiously,  but 
knowing  well  enough  what  it  was.    "Who  done  that  ?" 

He  made  no  answer  for  a  time,  but  at  length  re- 
marked with  small  concern,  "Why,  old  Absalom  done 
that,  that's  who.  He  knifed  me  in  the  back  when  I 
was  lookin'  the  other  way  atter  his  two  boys." 

"Ye  taken  the  old  hill  trail,  then?" 

"Yes,  it  wasn't  so  slippy  as  the  creek  road  up  to 
Hell-fer-Sartin.  Oh,  I  know  I  was  warned  outen  thar, 
but  I  couldn't  show  the  white  feather,  could  I  ?" 

"No,  ye  couldn't,  not  even  if  ye  war  a  preacher." 
By  this  time  she  was  busying  herself  caring  for  his 
wound. 

14 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

"Well,  that's  how  it  come,"  went  on  Andrew  Joslin. 
"I  taken  the  hill  trail  turnin'  off  yander  from  the 
creek,  like  ye  know.  I  met  them  up  in  the  hills.  The 
Lord  led  me  to  'em,  maybe.  The  Lord  fotched  me  back 
here,  too,  to  find  what  I  have  found.  How  have  I 
sinned !" 

"If  ye  didn't  kill  old  Absalom  Gannt  ye  shore  have 
sinned,"  remarked  his  fierce  dam  casually.  "Was  it 
some  fight  they  made?" 

"Well,  yes.  Thar  wasn't  but  me  along,  exceptin' 
Chan  Bullock  from  over  on  the  head  of  the  Buffalo — 
we  met  up  jest  as  I  got  up  into  the  hills.  When  we 
turned  down  the  head  of  Rattlesnake  we  run  acrosst 
them  people  settin'  under  a  tree,  dry,  an*  playin'  a 
game  of  keerds,  right  on  the  Lord's  day.  I  rid  up 
with  my  pistol  in  my  hand,  an*  I  says  to  them  I  didn't 
think  they  war  a-doin'  right  to  play  keerds  than  I 
seen  old  Absalom  thar,  an'  two  of  his  boys  and  two  of 
his  cousins.  Before  I  could  say  much  to  them,  one  of 
the  boys  he  up  and  fired  fust.  He  hit  old  Molly  in 
the  neck.  She  pitched  some  then,  an'  afore  I  could 
git  her  whar  I  could  do  anything,  the  feller  that  fired 
at  me,  he  slipped  over  down  the  big  bank  back  of 
him,  an'  got  away  in  the  bush.  They  had  their  horses 
thar,  an'  a  couple  of  'em  jumped  on  horseback  an* 
begun  firin'  at  me,  an'  all  the  time  old  Molly  was 
a-jumpin'  so  nobody  could  hit  nobody  off  en  her.  Then 
come  Chan  Bullock  ridin'  up  closeter  to  me.    He  had 

15 


THE  WAY   OUT 

along  his  old  fifty-caliber  Winchester — never  could 
bear  them  big  guns;  they  shoot  too  high.  Well,  he 
fired  couple  of  times,  an*  missed,  an'  by  that  time  all 
of  Absalom  an'  his  folks  was  on  the  run,  either  horse- 
back er  afoot. 

"I  seen  the  boy  that  done  shot  at  me  a-runnin'  down 
the  creek  bed  more'n  a  hundred  and  fifty  yard  away. 
I  grabbed  the  gun  away  from  Chan,  an'  I  says,  'If  I 
couldn't  shoot  no  better'n  ye  kin  I'd  be  ashamed  o' 
myself.'  So  I  taken  a  keerful  aim — ye  see,  I  helt 
a  leetle  ahead  of  him — an*  when  I  pulls  the  trigger  he 
rolls  over  about  four  times  atter  he  hit  the  ground. 
I  swear  that  big  rifle  must  be  a  hard-hittin'  gun — 
hit  war  a  good  two-hundred  yard  when  I  shot! 

"Chan  didn't  have  no  pistol  along,  an*  mine  had 
fell  on  the  ground.  While  all  this  war  a-happenin', 
Absalom  he  had  snuck  back  behint  the  tree  whar  they 
was  a-settin'  an*  a-playin'  keerds.  Now,  when  my 
back  was  turned,  he  run  out  an'  he  cut  me  two  er  three 
times  right  here  in  the  back,  afore  I  could  hep  myself. 
Then  he  run  off,  too/' 

"An'  ye  didn't  git  'im?" 

"How  could  I?  He  run  down  the  creek  bed  road 
towarge  whar  that  other  feller  was.  I  covered  him  fair 
with  Chan's  gun — but  she  snapped  on  me.  He  hadn't 
had  but  a  couple  of  hull*,  an'  I'd  shot  the  last  shot  at 
Pete  when  I  got  him.    So  Absalom,  he  got  away." 

"Well,  you  see  how  come  me  to  come  home,"  he 

16 


THE  LAW  AND  THE  GOSPEL 

added  presently,  having  faithfully  told  his  kin  the  full 
story  of  the  latest  combat.  "I  didn't  know  as  I  could 
git  acrosst  the  mountings  into  Hell-fer-Sartin  an' 
preach  f er  a  couple  days.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  me 
I  had  orter  come  back  home.  I  did — an\  well 
you  see  what  I've  done  found  here.  I  didn't  git 
Absalom.  I've  lost  my  son,  David.  Hit  'pears  to  me 
like  I'm  forsaken  of  the  Lord  this  day!" 

His  mother  made  no  comment,  but  stepped  up  to 
the  mantel-piece  and  reached  down  a  bottle  of  white 
liquid,  from  which  she  poured  half  a  pint  into  a  gourd 
which  she  found  alongside  the  bottle. 

"Drink  this,"  said  she.  "We'll  git  Absalom  some 
other  time." 


CHAPTER  II 


A  NEW  CREED 


THE  young  man  who  had  been  dismissed  from 
his  father's  house  walked  unmindful  of  the 
rain  still  falling  in  the  evening  gloom,  nor 
looked  back  to  the  door  now  closed  behind  him.  His 
face,  strong  and  deeply  lined,  now  had  settled  into  a 
sternness  which  belied  the  half -humorous  expression 
it  but  now  had  borne.  He  was  wide  of  chest,  broad 
of  shoulder,  straight  of  limb  as  he  walked  now,  hands 
in  pockets,  straightforward,  not  slouching  down,  his 
back  flat  There  was  little  of  apathy  or  weakness  about 
him,  one  would  have  said.  Well-clad,  such  a  man  as 
he  would  attract  many  a  backward  gaze  from  men — or 
women — on  any  city  street. 

He  stepped  straight  down  the  little  bank  beyond 
the  fence  marking  the  delimitations  of  the  scant  yard 
and  the  little  cornfield  of  Preacher  Joslin's  cabin,  and 
at  once  was  in  the  road,  or  all  the  road  that  ever  had 
been  known  there.  It  was  no  better  than  the  rocky 
bed  of  the  shallow  creek  which  flowed  directly  in 
front  of  the  cabin.  Here,  in  the  logging  days,  iron- 
shod  wheels  had  worn  deep  grooves  into  the  sand 

18 


A  NEW  CREED 

rock.  The  longer  erosion  of  the  years  also  had  cut 
sharp  the  faces  of  some  of  the  clay  banks.  It  might 
have  been  seen  in  a  stronger  light  than  this  of  twi- 
light, that  these  banks  had  great  seams  of  black  run- 
ning parallel  through  them — croppings  of  the  heavy 
coal  seams  known  throughout  the  region. 

From  time  to  time  the  young  man  sprang  from 
rock  to  rock  as  he  made  his  way  down  the  bed  of  the 
little  branch  now  running  full  from  the  heavy  rain,  but 
he  walked  on  carelessly,  for  the  road  was  well  known 
to  him  by  day  or  night.  It  had  been  the  path  of  him- 
self, his  family,  his  ancestors,  for  well  nigh  a  hundred 
years. 

As  he  advanced,  David  Joslin  cast  an  eye  now  and 
again  upon  the  mountain  sides.  They  were  beautiful, 
even  in  the  dull  of  evening,  clad  in  gorgeous  autumnal 
glories  of  chlorophyl  afire  under  the  combined  alche- 
mies  of  the  rain,  the  frost,  and  the  sun.  There  were 
reds  more  brilliant  than  may  be  seen  even  among  the 
maples  of  the  far  north  when  the  frost  comes,  yellows 
for  which  a  new  color  name  must  be  invented,  browns 
of  unspeakable  velvety  softness,  a  thousand  ocherous 
and  saffron  hues  such  as  no  palette  carries.  They  lay 
now  softened  and  dulled,  but  very  beautiful. 

Young  Joslin  knew  every  hill,  every  ravine,  every 
mountain  cove  which  lay  about  him  here, — all  the  coun- 
try for  fifty  miles.  Presently  he  reached  the  end  of 
this  little  side  trail  down  from  the  mountains,  and 

19 


THE  WAY  OUT 

emerged  into  a  wider  valley  where  passed  the  consid- 
erable volume  of  a  fork  of  the  Kentucky  River,  itself 
now  running  yellow  from  the  rains.  Had  he  cared  he 
might  have  noted,  now  passing  on  the  flood,  scattered 
logs  and  parts  of  rafts,  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  old 
wasteful  occupants  of  the  land,  who  cut  and  dragged 
priceless  timber  to  the  grudging  stream,  and  lost  the 
more  the  more  they  labored. 

He  turned  to  the  right,  followed  down  the  muddy 
river  bank,  and  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  turned  yet 
again  to  the  right  at  a  decrepit  gate  serving  in  part  to 
stop  the  way  as  adjutant  of  a  broken  rail  fence  which 
marked  a  scanty  field. 

Before  him  now  lay  a  cleared  space  of  some  twenty 
acres  or  more,  occupied  at  one  corner  by  spare,  gnarled 
apple  trees,  no  man  might  say  how  old,  appurtenances 
of  acres  which  David  Joslin  had  "heired"  from  the 
husband  of  the  same  grandam  whom  but  now  he  had 
left.  Behind  the  apple  trees  rose  a  low  roof,  the 
broken  cover  of  a  scant  gallery,  a  chimney,  ragged- 
topped,  at  each  end  of  the  cabin.  Here  and  there  stood 
a  China  tree,  yonder  grew  a  vine,  softening  somewhat 
and  beautifying  even  in  the  beauty  of  decay  those 
rude  surroundings.  Back  of  the  house  were  other 
small  log  buildings,  cribs  scantily  filled  with  corn.  In 
the  barnyard  stood  two  tall  poles,  behind  which,  run- 
ning up  into  the  darkness  of  the  mountain  side, 
stretched  the  long  rusted  wires  which  in  the  harvest- 

20 


A  NEW  CREED 

ing  of  the  autumn  sometimes  carried  down  from  the 
side  of  the  mountains,  too  steep  for  the  use  of  horse 
or  mule,  the  sacks  of  corn  perilously  gathered  above 
and  sent  down  in  the  easiest  way  to  the  farmyard. 

Apparently  the  harvest  that  fall  had  been  but  scant. 
The  place  had  an  air  of  poverty,  or  meagerness — 
rather  perhaps  should  one  use  the  latter  than  the  for- 
mer word.  It  was  not  the  home  of  a  drunkard,  or  a 
ne'er-do-well,  or  a  poverty-smitten  man,  which  David 
Joslin  now  approached — his  own  home,  one  like  to 
many  others  all  about  him  in  these  hills.  It  was  an 
old,  old,  out-worn  land,  a  decrepit  land,  which  lay 
all  about  him.  He  was  like  his  neighbors,  his  home 
like  theirs. 

David  Joslin  walked  past  the  China  tree  and  up  to 
his  own  door.  He  stood  for  a  moment  scraping  the 
mud  from  his  feet  at  the  end  of  the  broken  board  on 
the  little  gallery  before  he  pushed  open  the  door.  A 
woman  rose  to  meet  him. 

She  was  a  woman  yet  young,  but  seemed  no  longer 
young.  Perhaps  she  was  twenty-two,  perhaps  twenty- 
five  years  of  age.  She  was  tall  and  strong,  after  the 
fashion  of  the  mountain  woman,  angular,  spare.  The 
thin  dark  hair,  swept  smoothly  back  from  her  bony 
forehead,  seemed  to  come  from  a  scalp  tight-grown 
upon  the  skull.  She  appeared  to  carry  about  her  the 
look  of  a  certain  raw,  rugged  strength,  though  there 
was  little  of  the  soft  and  feminine  about  her  figure, 

21 


x  THE   WAY  OUT 

about  her  attitude,  about  her  voice  as  she  now  spoke 
to  him. 

"Why  didn't  ye  come  home  long  ago?"  she  de- 
manded with  no  preliminary. 

Joslin  made  no  answer,  but  sat  down  sullenly  in  a 
chair  which  he  pushed  up  to  the  fireplace.  The  flames 
were  dying  down  into  a  mass  of  coals  which  likewise 
seemed  sullen.  He  reached  out  to  the  scant  pile  of 
firewood  at  the  corner  of  the  hearth,  and  cast  on  a 
stick  or  so. 

"Ye're  always  away,"  she  went  on  grumbling. 
"Folks'll  think  ye  don't  care  nothin'  fer  yore  own 
fam'ly.  Every  whip-stitch  ye're  off  up  into  the  hills, 
visitin'  somewhars  or  other,  I  don't  know  whar. 
What's  it  comin'  to?" 

Still  he  made  no  answer,  and  she  went  on  upbraid- 
ing. 

"We  been  married  four  years,  an'  ye  act  as  free 
as  if  we'd  nuvver  been  married  at  all.  Don't  yore 
fam'ly  need  nothin'  now  an'  agin?  Is  this  all  a 
womern's  got  to  live  fer,  I  want  to  know  ?  Look  what 
kind  of  place  we  got." 

"Hit's  all  ye  come  from,"  he  said  at  length.  "Hit's 
all  yore  people  ever  knowed,  er  mine.  Why  should 
ary  of  us  expect  more?" 

An  even,  dull,  accepted  despair  was  in  his  tone.  As 
for  her,  she  cared  not  so  much  for  philosophy  as  for 
the  heckling  she  had  held  in  reserve  for  him. 

22 


A  NEW  CREED 

"Hit's  a  lot  to  offer  ary  womern,  hain't  it?"  said 
she. 

"Had  ye  much  to  offer  in  exchange?"  said  he, 
quietly  and  bitterly.  "We  traded  fair,  the  best  we 
knowed,  the  same  sort  of  trade  that's  common.  We 
got  married — thar  was  our  children.  What  more  is 
thar  fer  ye  er  em  er  ary  of  us  in  these  hills,  I'd 
like  to  know !     Such  as  I've  had,  ye've  had." 

There  was  something  so  stern,  so  bitter,  in  his  sud- 
den unkind  remark  that  she  took  another  tack. 

"Hain't  ye  tired?"  she  began,  wheedling.  She 
stooped  over  and  pulled  back  the  coverlet,  a  gaudy, 
patchwork  quilt  upon  the  single  bed  of  the  apartment. 
"Don't  ye  want  to  lay  down  an'  rest  a  while  ?" 

"No.    I'm  a-thinkin'." 

"What  was  ye  thinkin'  about — me?" 

"No,  I  was  thinkin'  about  the  new  doctor,  an*  what 
he  said  to  me  last  week." 

She  was  silent  now.  The  name  of  the  new  doctor 
seemed  to  be  something  she  had  heard  before. 

"Ye  talk  too  much  with  that  new  doctor.  He  puts 
too  many  fool  ideas  in  yore  haid.  We're  married,  an* 
we  got  to  live  like  that.  How  do  ye  figger  any  dif- 
ferent, I'd  like  to  know?  Ye  brung  me  here  yore 
own  self — ye  knowed  what  ye  wanted  when  ye 
come  up  thar  courtin'  me  at  my  daddy's  at  the  haid 
of  Bull  Skin.  I  come  right  down  here  to  yore  house 
when  I  was  married.    I  stood  right  on  this  floor  here, 

23 


THE  WAY   OUT 

an'   yore   daddy,   he   married   us.      Ye   know  that." 

"Yes,  I  do."  The  young  man's  face  was  extremely 
grave  and  gray  as  he  spoke. 

" — An*  yore  daddy  was  a  regular  ordained 
preacher.' ' 

"What's  the  matter  with  ye,  anyways?"  she  went 
on  querulously.  "Ye  been  a-quarlin'  with  yore  own 
people  well  as  me  f 

"My  own  daddy  jest  now  ordered  me  outen  his 
house.     I'm  nuvver  goin'  thar  no  more." 

"Huh !  I  reckon  yore  own  f ree-thinkin'  ways  druv 
it  on  ye." 

"He  burned  my  fiddle !"  said  David  Joslin,  with  sud- 
den resentment. 

"Ye  mought  have  expected  it — goin'  up  thar  to 
play  a  fiddle  in  a  preacher's  house  1" 

"I  jest  had  her  strung  up  for  the  fust  time,"  re- 
joined her  husband.  "I  was  a-playin'  'Barbara  Allen/ 
My  daddy  accused  me  of  bein'  sinful.  We've  got  it 
hard  enough  livin'  in  these  hills  without  being  damned 
when  we  die." 

"Hush,  Dave !    Be  keerful  of  what  ye  say." 

"I'm  a-bein'  keerful.  I'm  castin'  up  accounts  this 
very  day.  I  been  castin'  up  accounts  fer  some  time. 
I'm  thinkin'  of  what  that  new  doctor  said  to  me.  That 
was  preachin'  sich  as  I  nuvver  heern  tell  of  afore  in 
these  hills.  I  wish't  he'd  come  here  an'  stay  right 
along." 

24 


A  NEW  CREED 

She  made  no  answer  now,  but  pulled  out  the  rude 
board  table  at  the  side  of  the  fire,  and  placed  upon  it 
a  yellowed  plate  or  so,  holding  a  piece  of  cold  corn- 
pone,  a  handful  of  parched  corn. 

"Eat,"  said  she.  "Hit's  all  we  got.  I  borrowed 
some  meal  from  the  Taggarts.  They've  got  no  more 
to  lend." 

"Don't  ask  nothin'  of  no  one,  womern.  I'll  not  be 
beholden  to  ary  man.  I  tell  ye,  I'm  castin'  up  ac- 
counts." 

"What  do  ye  mean— what  ye  talkin'  about,  Dave?" 
She  was  half-frightened  now. 

"I  hardly  know.  I  kain't  see  very  much  light  jest 
yit." 

"Hain't  ye  goin'  to  eat?"  she  said.  "Hain't  ye 
goin'  to  sleep?  Hain't  ye  goin'  to  lay  down  on  the 
bed?" 

"No!"  said  he.  "No!  Our  children  laid  thar  onct 
— them  two.  They  died.  It  was  best  they  died. 
They're  our  last  ones." 

"What  do  ye  mean,  Dave?"  she  again  demanded, 
wide-eyed.  "What  do  ye  mean — ye  hain't  a-goin' 
to  sleep  here  with  me  agin — nuwer?" 

"No,  I  told  ye.  I  said  I  was  a-castin'  up  accounts. 
Meliss',  I've  got  to  go  away." 

"Ye  hain't  a-goin'  to  quit  me  ?" 

"I  don't  like  that  word.  I  nuwer  quit  nobody  nor 
nothin'  that  I  owed  a  duty  to.     But  I've  got  to  go 

25 


THE  WAY  OUT 

away.  Hit  hain't  right  fer  ye  an'  me  to  live  together 
no  more.    Children — why,  my  God!" 

"Dave!  Air  ye  crazy?  Hain't  I  been  a  good  and 
faithful  womern  to  ye?    Tell  me!" 

He  did  not  answer  her. 

"Tell  me,  Dave — have  ye " 

"No!  I've  been  as  faithful  as  ye.  We  made  our 
mistake  when  we  was  married — we  mustn't  make  it 
no  more  an'  no  wuss." 

"The  new  doctor !"  She  blazed  out  now  with  scorn, 
contempt,  indignation,  all  in  her  voice. 

"Yes!"  he  replied  suddenly.  "The  new  doctor — 
ary  doctor — ary  man  with  sense  could  have  told  us 
what  he  told  me.  I  know  now  a  heap  of  things  I 
nuvver  knowed — what  my  pap  an'  mammy  nuwer 
knowed." 

"Ye' re  a-goin'  to  quit  me  like  a  coward !" 

"I  quit  nobody  like  a  coward.  I  hain't  a  coward, 
Meliss',  an'  you  know  it.  I'm  a-goin'  to  quit  ye  be- 
cause I'm  a  brave  man.  I've  got  to  be  as  brave  as 
ary  man  ever  was  in  the  Cumberlands  to  do  what  I've 
got  to  do.  Do  ye  think  it's  easy  fer  me?  Don't 
ye  think  I  hear  my  own  children  cryin'  still — mine 
as  much  as  yours?  An'  this  was  all  I  have  to  give 
them.  Thank  God  they  died!  They'd  nuwer  orter 
of  been  borned." 

His  wife  sank  into  a  chair,  her  hands  dropped  limp 
in  her  lap.    His  own  hands  were  trembling  as,  after 

26 


A  NEW  CREED 

a  long  time,  he  turned  toward  her ;  his  voice  trembled 
also. 

"Look  around  us  in  these  hills,"  said  he,  his  lips 
quivering.  "Think  of  what's  in  them  coves  back  fer 
fifty  mile  yan  way,  and  yan,  and  yan,  up  the  Bull  Skin, 
up  the  Redbird,  up  Hell-fer-Sartin  an'  Newfound  an' 
the  Rattlesnake  an'  the  Buffalo — houses  like  ours — 
whisky — killin'— cousins." 

"Cousins?"    Her  voice  was  hoarse.    "Why  not?" 

"Whisky — killin' — cousins!"  he  repeated.  "I  don't 
know  which  is  the  wust,  but  I  reckon  the  cousin  part 
is.  We  was  cousins!  Thar*s  cousins  back  in  our  fam- 
ily, both  sides,  as  far  as  we  know.  Those  children — 
thank  God !    Thar'll  be  no  more." 

Now  indeed  a  long,  long  silence  fell  between  them. 
The  woman  was  pale  as  death  as  she  turned  to  him  at 
last,  to  hear  his  self -accusing  monotone. 

"God  knows  what  I'm  a-goin'  to  do.  But  one  thing 
shore,  if  I've  sinned  I've  got  to  pay.  I  reckon  it's 
a-goin'  to  be  a  right  big  price  I've  got  to  pay.  Thar*s 
a  wall  around  us — hit's  around  these  mountings — hit 
shets  us  all  out  from  all  the  world.  Do  ye  reckon, 
Meliss',  if  I  was  able  to  make  a  way  through— do  ye 
reckon  they'd  say  I'd  paid?" 

"Ye  talk  like  a  fool,  man!"  said  she  with  sudden 
anger,  "like  a  fool !  Ye  let  a  limpy,  glass-eyed  doctor 
stir  ye  all  up  and  fill  yer  haid  with  fool  idees.  Ye 
say  ye' re  a-goin'  to  quit  me,  that  had  our  babies — 

27 


THE   WAY  OUT 

because  of  what?  Yore  duty's  to  me — to  me — me! 
Ye  married  me.  I  want  live  children — hit's  a  dis- 
grace when  a  womern  don't  have  none.  Hit's  yore 
business  to  take  care  of  me,  an'  now  ye  say  ye're 
a-goin'  to  quit  me.  Ye're  a  coward,  that's  what  ye 
air,  the  wustest  coward  ever  was  in  these  mountings. 
I  don't  want  furrin  ways  myself — I  don't  want  to  go 
Outside — I  don't  want  ary  of  them  new  doctors 
comin'  in  here,  fetched  on  from  Outside.  This  is 
our  country,  an'  it's  good  enough.  Ye  talk  about 
leavin'  me.  Thar's  some  other  womern  somewhars — 
that's  what's  the  matter  with  ye,  Dave  Joslin,  an'  I 
know  it !" 

He  rose  now,  gray,  pallid,  half -tottering  as  he  stood 
under  her  tirade. 

"That's  not  true,"  said  he  at  last.  "I  don't  reckon 
ye  understand  me,  er  what  I  mean,  er  what  I  think. 
The  only  question  is,  what's  right.  We  hain't  livin* 
the  way  folks  orter  do  to-day.  The  new  doctor  tolt 
me  what's  Outside.  Why,  womern,  that's  the  world — 
that's  life!  More'n  that — a  heap  more'n  that — that's 
duty!  If  I  stay  here  an'  make  a  little  corn  an'  raise 
a  couple  of  hogs  a  year,  livin'  with  ye  an'  raisin'  a 
couple  more  of  childern,  I  hain't  livin'  the  way  I'd 
orter.  If  we  wasn't  cousins — if  I  didn't  know  now 
it's  a  sin  to  live  on  this  way — I  wouldn't  quit  ye — I'd 
die  first.  I  hain't  argoiri  to  quit  ye  now.  As  long 
as  I  got  a  dollar  in  the  world  it's  yores.     I'll  hep  ye 

28 


A  NEW  CREED 

more  by  goin'  out  An*  I'm  a-goin'  out — I'm  a-goin' 
Outside. 

"I'm  sorry  fer  ye,  Meliss',"  said  he  presently,  as 
she  sat  stone-cold.  "I'm  sorry  fer  all  of  the  wimern 
like  ye  in  these  mountings,  sorry  fer  us  all.  God 
knows  I  don't  want  to  make  it  harder  fer  ye — only 
easier.  Hit's  just  a  question  o'  what's  the  right  thing 
to  do." 

There  was  a  vast  softness,  a  great  pity  in  his  voice 
as  he  spoke  now.  He  stood  irresolute,  and  his  eyes, 
in  spite  of  himself,  turned  sideways  to  where  once  had 
lain  two  small  bundles  at  the  foot  of  the  unkempt  bed. 

"Ye  coward!"  she  cast  at  him,  bitter  and  intense. 
"Ye  low-borned  coward!  Ye're  a-goin'  to  quit  me, 
mother  of  yore  dead  childern.  Well,  go  on  along.  I 
won't  ax  ye  to  stay.     Git  along." 

"My  granny  she's  a-goin'  to  take  keer  o'  ye,"  said 
David  Joslin.  "She'll  be  kind  to  ye,  an'  ye'll  have  no 
babies  to  bother  over  nuwer.  Don't — don't  talk  to 
me  no  more.     I  reckon  I  kain't  stand  no  more." 

He  stepped  to  the  mantel,  took  from  it  the  old  faded 
book  that  lay  there — no  more  and  nothing  else  of  all 
in  the  house  that  had  been  his.  Then  he  turned  toward 
his  own  door. 

She  heard  his  slow  footsteps  stumbling  through  the 
sodden  grass.  There  closed  behind  him  for  the  second 
time  that  evening  a  door  opening  upon  what  he  had 
once  called  home. 


CHAPTER  III 


THE  BLOOD  COVENANT 


DAVID  JOSLIN  turned  from  his  own  wastrel 
fire,  his  own  decrepit  gate,  as  but  now  he 
had  from  his  father's,  and  he  did  not  look 
back  at  what  he  had  left.  Steadily  his  feet  slushed 
forward,  as  he  held  his  course  through  the  dripping 
rain,  faced  now  up  the  valley  of  the  stream  near  which 
he  lived.  Here  and  there,  on  this  side  or  that  of  the 
swollen  river,  showed  infrequent  lights  at  the  windows 
of  homes — each  a  hospitable  home  where  he  would  be 
welcome  at  any  time  of  the  day  or  night.  But  he 
did  not  turn  to  any  one  of  these,  homeless  as  he  was 
himself. 

For  a  considerable  distance  he  kept  to  the  valley 
until  finally  he  turned  into  a  narrow,  deeply  sheltered 
ravine  which  as  he  knew  had  no  occupant.  It  was  a 
wild,  uncultivated  spot,  the  mouth  of  the  gulch  known 
as  Semmes'  Cove.  At  its  foot  trickled  a  stream  of 
water  leading  far  back  into  the  hills  through  a  dis- 
trict where  as  yet  home-building  man  had  not  come. 
The  tall  trees  still  stc*>d  here  unreaped — the  giant 
white  oaks  and  the  tremendous  trees  known  as  "old- 

30 


THE  BLOOD  COVENANT 

time  poplar,"  among  which  not  even  the  slightest  gar- 
nering had  as  yet  been  done  by  timber-hunting  man. 

There  were  secrets  of  a  certain  sort  up  this  gulch, 
as  David  Joslin  knew.  Few  men  openly  went  infco  the 
mouth  of  this  wild  ravine,  and  there  was  no  definite 
path  up  the  creek  such  as  marked  most  of  the  others 
thereabout,  None  the  less  Joslin  in  the  darkness  of 
the  night  turned  into  it  as  one  wholly  familiar  with 
the  vicinity. 

He  was  a  woodsman,  a  wild  man  fit  to  conquer  and 
prevail  in  any  wild  land.     He  went  now  about  the 
business  he  purposed  as  steadily  as  though  he  were 
well  accustomed  to  it.    With  not  even  the  slight  assist- 
ance of  an  occasional  star,  he  found  the  trunk  of  a 
giant  poplar  tree  which  had  fallen — perhaps  he  knew 
it  from  his  many  wanderings  here.     The  bark  upon 
the  trunk  was  dry,  and  with  the  aid  of  a  broken 
branch  he  loosed  a  long  fold,  sufficient  for  a  roof 
when  propped  up  on  the  trunk  of  the  tree  itself.    He 
felt  within  the  rotted  trunk  and  drew  out  an  armful  of 
rotted  but  dry  wood,  which  made  him  good  floor 
enough  for  his  bed,  keeping  him  above  the  dampness. 
A  part  of  it  also  offered  punk  for  the  tinder  which  he 
found  within  the  breast  of  his  own  blouse.    Here  also 
were  the  primitive  tools  of  the  frontiersman  in  this 
land — flint  and  steel.    And  with  flint  and  steel  David 
Joslin  now  managed  to  build  himself  a  fire  even  in  the 
dripping  rain. 

81 


THE   WAY   OUT 

He  cast  himself  down,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  ponder 
1    and  to  brood.    The  wall  of  blackness  shut  him  in  all 
about,  but  before  him  passed  continually  the  panorama 
of  his  dreams. 

The  night  wore  through,  and  at  length  the  gray 
dawn  came.  The  wind  was  rising  now,  high  in  the 
tops  of  the  trees,  and  the  air  was  colder  since  the  rain 
had  ceased.  Any  but  a  hardened  man  who  had  slept 
thus  would  have  waked  stiffened  and  shivering.  Not 
so  Joslin,  who  rebuilt  his  fire  and  looked  about  him 
for  something  with  which  to  stay  a  hunger  natural 
after  twenty-four  hours  of  abstinence.  A  few  fallen 
nuts  from  the  trees,  a  frozen  persimmon  or  so,  made 
all  the  breakfast  he  could  find.  In  his  cupped  hand 
he  drank  from  the  little  stream.  In  a  few  moments 
he  was  at  the  debouchement  of  the  creek  trail  lead- 
ing up  to  his  father's  home.  He  halted  here  as  he 
heard  the  sound  of  hoof -beats  coming  down  the 
stream  bed. 

A  rider  came  into  view  making  such  speed  as  he 
could  down  the  perilous  footing.  He  drew  up  his 
horse,  startled  at  seeing  a  man  here,  but  an  instant  later 
smiled. 

"That  ye,  Dave?"  said  he.  "Ye  had  me  skeered 
at  fust." 

"What's  yore  hurry?    Whar  ye  goin' ?" 

"Hurry  enough — I  was  a-comin'  atter  ye." 

"What's  wrong?" 

32 


THE  BLOOD   COVENANT 

"Plenty's  wrong — yore  daddy's  daid — right  up 
thar." 

"What's  that? — What  do  ye  mean?"  demanded 
Joslin.     "Daid — I  left  him  last  night — he  was  well." 

"Huh !  He's  daid  now  all  right,"  rejoined  the  rider, 
finding  a  piece  of  tobacco,  from  which  he  bit  a  chew. 
"I  was  a-goin'  down  atter  ye.  I  seed  him  a-hangin' 
thar  right  by  his  neck  on  a  tree  this  side  the  house. 
He  must  of  hung  hisself,  that's  all." 

"That's  a  lie,"  said  Joslin.  "My  daddy  kill  his- 
self  " 

"Come  on  an'  see  then.  If  he  hain't  daid  by  now, 
my  name  hain't  Chan  Bullock!  He's  done  finished 
what  old  Absalom  started.  I  rid  over  to  the  house  to 
see  how  he  was  a-gittin'  along,  an'  I  come  spang  on 
him  when  I  come  down  offen  the  hill.  He  was  still 
a-kickin'  then." 

David  Joslin  approached  him,  his  hands  hooked  as 
though  to  drag  him  from  his  horse.  But  an  instant 
later  he  curbed  his  wrath,  caught  at  the  stirrup  strap 
of  the  rider's  horse,  swung  the  horse's  head  up  the 
stream,  and  urged  it  into  speed,  himself  running  along- 
side with  great  strides  which  asked  no  odds. 

He  found  full  verification  of  all  the  messenger  had 
told  him.  From  the  forked  branch  of  a  tree,  extend- 
ing out  beyond  the  steep  side  of  the  bank,  swung  a 
grim  bundle  of  loose  clothing  covering  what  but  now 
had  been  a  strong  man.     A  quick  sob  came  into  the 

33 


THE   WAY   OUT 

throat  of  David  Joslin  as  he  sprang  to  the  bank.  Even 
as  he  did  so  he  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  coming. 
The  bent  and  broken  figure  of  Granny  Joslin  came 
into  view. 

"What's  wrong  here  ?    Who  was  that  I  heerd  a-hol- 

lerin'  ? My    God    A'mighty,    who's    a-hangin' 

thar? My  son — my  son!" 

She  also  was  endeavoring  to  scramble  up  the  bank. 

"Was  it  ye  a-hollerin'?  Why  didn't  ye  cut  him 
down,  ye  fool?"  she  demanded  of  Bullock,  who  still 
sat  on  his  horse. 

"Hit  hain't  lawful,  Granny,"  said  he.  "Ye  mustn't 
cut  him  down." 

"I'd  cut  him  down  if  I  was  damned  fer  it,"  cried 
the  old  dame.  "Ye  coward,  how  long  since  ye  seen 
this?  When  ye  hollered?  Was  he  livin'  then?  Ye 
mought  have  saved  his  life.  Git  outen  my  way,  boy," 
she  said  to  her  grandson,  and  an  instant  later  she  her- 
self, old  as  she  was,  had  leaned  far  out  along  the 
branch  and  with  a  stroke  of  the  knife  she  always  car- 
*ied  had  cut  loose  the  rope.  There  was  a  thudding, 
sliding  fall.  The  body  of  old  Preacher  Joslin  rolled 
to  the  foot  of  the  bank  among  the  sodden  leaves. 

Bullock  dismounted  and  stood  looking  down  at  the 
limp  figure.    But  David  pushed  him  aside. 

"Leave  him  be,"  said  he,  and  so  he  slipped  his  arms 
around  the  body  of  his  father,  and,  lifting  him,  strode 
up  along  the  little  stream  bed  to  the  home  now  left 

34 


THE  BLOOD   COVENANT 

the  more  desolate  and  abandoned.  The  dead  man's 
mother,  dry-eyed,  hobbled  along  behind.  She  showed 
where  the  body  might  be  laid. 

"He  hain't  daid  yit,  I  most  half  believe,"  said  she, 
laying  her  hand  on  his  heart.  "Lay  him  down  here, 
boyr*.  on  his  own  bed.  Thar  kain't  no  one  prove  then 
he  didn't  die  in  his  own  bed.  The  Gannts  didn't  git 
him." 

If  there  was  indeed  a  fluttering  gasp  or  two  at  the 
lips  after  they  had  placed  the  body  of  Preacher  Joslin 
upon  his  own  bed  in  his  own  house,  it  was  but  the  last 
that  marked  the  passing.  When  not  even  this  might  be 
suspected,  Granny  Joslin  broke  into  a  sort  of  exalted 
chant  of  her  own  invention. 

"I  got  a  son !"  she  crooned  in  her  shrill,  high  voice. 
"He's  strong  an'  tall.  He  hain't  a-feared.  He  has 
the  han^  to  kill.  He'll  slay  'em  all.  He'll  strow  the 
blood.  He'll  make  the  fight  fer  me  an'  him  an'  all 
of  us!" 

She  chanted  the  words  over  and  over  again,  the 
kindling  of  her  dark  eyes  a  fearsome  thing  to  see. 
Now  and  again  she  turned  from  the  dead  man  to  the 
motionless  figure  of  his  ?on,  who  stood  at  his  bedside. 

"He'll  strow  the  blood,"  she  sang.  "He'll  kill  'em 
all! 

"May  God  curse  old  Absalom  Gannt  an'  all  his  kin," 
she  said  at  last,  shaking  a  skinny  hand  toward  heaven. 
"1  pledge  ye  to  it,  Davy.     Tell  the  last  one  of  them 

35 


THE   WAY   OUT 

all's  gone,  we'll  not  fergit.  Oh,  Davy,  it  was  fer  this 
that  ye  was  borned!" 

They  stood  thus,  a  grim  enough  group,  when  the 
sound  of  hoofs  in  the  creek  bed  intruded.  Bullock 
stepped  to  the  door  and  accosted  the  newcomer. 

"Howdy,  Cal,"  said  he.    "Light  down  an'  come  in." 

The  rider  dismounted,  pasting  his  bridle  rein  across 
the  top  of  a  picket. 

"Andy  home?"  asked  he. 

"Well,  he  is  an'  he  hain't,"  said  Bullock.     "Come 


on  in." 


"Well,  I  thought  I'd  come  in  an'  see  him " 

"Come  in.  Ye  can  see  all  thar  is  of  him,"  and  he 
led  the  way. 

"Good  God  A'mighty!  God  damn  me!"  exclaimed 
the  visitor,  as  he  caught  sight  of  what  lay  on  the  bed 
in  the  room  to  which  they  led  him.  "Granny,  how 
come  this  ?    He's  daid !" 

"Yes,  he's  daid,"  said  Granny  Joslin  calmly.  "He 
lung  hisself  down  below  by  the  spring  right  now.  Ye 
kin  see  whar  the  rope  cut  in  his  neck.  He  was  a- 
breathin'  when  they  put  him  thar.  If  that  fool  boy 
Chan  had  had  any  sense  at  all  he'd  of  cut  him  down 
an'  done  saved  him." 

"Well,  now,  Granny,"  began  the  accused  one. 
•Well,  now " 

"Wait!"  David  Joslin  raised  his  own  hand. 
"Granny,  don't  say  that.    Hit's  the  wish  of  the  Lord. 

36 


THE  BLOOD   COVENANT 

Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord.  I  think  my  father 
is  better  off.  Sence  he  wished  it,  let's  call  it  well  an' 
good.    I  reckon  it  all  got  too  much  fer  him." 

"Well,  I  was  just  a-comin'  down,"  said  the  new- 
comer, Calvin  Trasker,  "to  ask  ye  all  out  fer  a  little 
jfrolic  to-night  over  to  Semmes'  Cove.    They're  a-goin' 
"to  draw  out  this  evening,  an'  a  lot  of  the  neighbors'll 
be  thar,  like  enough." 

"Old  Absalom  ?"  asked  the  tall  young  man,  unemo- 
tionally. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  "him  an'  his  boys." 

"Not  all  of  'em,"  said  the  old  dame  suddenly.  "My 
boy  fixed  a  couple  of  them  people  yesterday  afore  they 
got  him.  Lookahere,  whar  old  Absalom  cut  him" — 
her  long,  bony  finger  pointed  out  the  spot.  "Spite  of 
'em  he  wouldn't  of  died.  He  killed  hisself,  an*  he 
died  in  his  own  bed.  Thar  kain't  no  Gannt  on  airth 
say  they  killed  my  boy." 

David  Joslin  quietly  walked  over  to  the  foot  of  the 
bedstead  and  unbuckled  the  belt  of  the  heavy,  worn 
revolver  which  he  found  hanging  there — the  revolver 
without  which  his  father  rarely  had  traveled  in  his 
circuit  riding.  This  he  fastened  about  his  own  waist, 
accepting  the  burden  of  his  father's  feud.  He  made 
no  comment. 

"Well,  now,  how  come  that  diffikilty,  Granny? 
Whar  were  it?"  asked  Trasker.    "War  he  hurt  bad?" 

"He  got  worse  along  towards  mornin',"  said  the 
37 


THE   WAY    OUT 

dead  man's  mother.  "I  seen  myself  that  he  war  cut 
deep  in  his  innards,  an'  couldn't  live  long  noways. 
He  lay  all  night  a-beggin'  me  to  see  that  case  he  died 
the  rest  of  us  would  kerry  on  the  quad  fer  him.  Now 
ye  say  Absalom  an*  some  of  his  folks  is  a-goin'  to  be 
over  thar  to-night?" 

The  visitor  nodded. 

"That's  a  mighty  good  thing,"  said  Granny  Joslin, 
nodding  her  own  approval.  "Go  on  over,  Davy.  See 
what  ye  kin  do.     Will  ye  promise  me  ye'll  go?" 

"I  promise  ye,  yes,  Granny,"  replied  David  Joslin 
slowly.  "But  I'll  tell  ye  now,  it  hain't  to  my  likin'. 
I'm  only  goin'  fer  one  reason." 

Seeing  that  they  all  three  stood  looking  at  him  in 
silence,  he  went  on. 

"I  don't  believe  in  these  fights  and  feuds  no  more. 
I  don't  believe  in  it  even  now  that  it's  come  closeter 
than  ever  to  me.  I  don't  believe  I'd  orter  go  over  thar 
an'  kill  nobody  else  jest  because  they  killed  my  daddy. 
Hit  hain't  right." 

They  looked  at  him  in  cold  silence.  He  raised  his 
hand.  "But  because  I  know  ye'd  all  call  me  a  coward 
if  I  didn't  go,  I'm  a-goin*  over  thar  with  you-alL  I'm 
argoin*  over  thar  before  my  own  daddy  is  real  daid 
and  buried.  I'll  face  Absalom  Gannt  an'  ary  of  his 
kin.  I  reckon  you-all  will  ride  with  me.  Ye  needn't 
have  no  doubt  that  I'll  flicker — I  won't — none  of  us 
nuwer  did.    But  I'm  a-tellin'  ye  now  I  don't  believe 

38 


THE  BLOOD   COVENANT 

in  it,  an'  I  don't  want  to  go.    I  pray  on  my  knees  I'll 
not  have  to  kill  no  man,  no  matter  what  happens." 

He  felt  the  strong  clutch  of  a  skinny  hand  at  his 
arm.  His  grandmother  whirled  him  about  and  looked 
into  his  eyes  with  her  own  blazing  orbs. 

"My  God,  I  more'n  half  believe  ye' re  a-skeered,  Dave 
Joslin.  God! — have  I  fetched  into  the  world  ary  one 
of  my  name  that's  afeerd  to  kill  a  rattlesnake  like 
ary  one  of  them  Gannts  ?  I  wish  to  God  I  was  a  man 
my  own  self — I'd  show  ye.  I  thought  ye  was  a  man, 
Dave.  Hain't  ye — tell  me — hain't  ye,  David 
Joslin?" 

"No,"  said  Joslin,  "I  don't  think  ...  a  coward! 
But  I  believe  the  law  orter  have  charge  of  all  these 
things.  If  I  kill  ary  man  over  thar  to-night,  I'm 
a-goin'  to  give  myself  up  to  the  law." 

"Listen  at  the  fool  talk!"  broke  out  his  fierce 
grandma.  "Listen  at  him.  Law? — law? — what's  the 
law  got  to  do  with  a  thing  like  this?  I  reckon  we-all 
know  well  enough  what  the  law  is." 

"I  hope  to  live  to  see  the  real  law  come  into  these 
mountings  yit,"  said  David  Joslin  solemnly.  "Only 
question  is,  what's  the  law?  I  hope  I'll  live  to  see  a 
different  way  of  figgerin'  in  these  hills." 

"Then  ye'll  wait  till  hell  freezes,"  said  Granny 
Joslin,  savagely.  "Hit'll  take  more'n  ye  to  reform 
the  people  in  these  mountings  from  real  men  inter 
yaller  cowards." 

39 


THE   WAY   OUT 

"Come  in  an*  eat,  men,"  she  added,  and  led  the  way 
to  the  side  of  the  table,  where  presently  she  brought 
a  few  half-empty  dishes — the  same  table  which  soon 
would  hold  the  body  of  the  dead  man.  "What  we  got 
ye're  welcome  to.  I  reckon  somehow  I  kin  run  this 
farm  alone  an*  make  a  livin'  here,  an*  while  I  run  it 
I'll  feed  the  friends  of  my  fam'ly  an'  I'll  shoot  the 
enemies  of  my  fam'ly  that  comes,  free  as  if  I'd  been 
a  man.  God  knows  I'd  orter  been,  with  the  trouble  I've 
had  to  carry.     Set  up  an'  eat." 

"Chan,"  said  she,  after  a  time,  her  mouth  full  of 
dry  cornpone,  "ride  up  the  creek  an'  git  some  of  our 
kin  to  jine  ye  over  thar  in  Semmes'  Cove  this  evenin'. 
They  mought  be  too  many  fer  ye." 

Chan  Bullock  nodded. 

"I'll  go  on  with  Dave  up  through  the  cut-off  to  the 
head  of  the  Buffalo,  an'  jine  Chan  an'  the  others  up 
in  thar,"  said  Calvin  Trasker.  "Ye  needn't  be 
a-skeered,  Granny.  Thar's  like  enough  to  be  some  hell 
a-poppin'  in  thar  afore  we  hold  the  funerl  here. 
Them  Gannts  may  have  a  funer'l  too." 

"Come  around  tomorrow,  them  of  ye  that's  left 
alive,"  said  the  old  woman  calmly.  "We'll  bury  him 
out  in  the  orchud,  whar  most  of  his  folks  is.  Come  on 
now — lend  me  a  hand  an'  we'll  lift  him  up  on  the 
table.     I  don't  reckon  he'll  bleed  no  more  now." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  FROLIC  AT  SEMMES'   COVE 

IT  was  late  afternoon  when  David  Joslin  and  Cal- 
vin Trasker,  his  kinsman,  started  into  the  hills. 
They  rode  in  silence  as  they  followed  the  winding 
little  path  which  led  up  into  the  wilderness  of  the  upper 
ridges.  Each  was  armed  with  a  heavy  revolver  which 
swung  under  his  coat,  and  each  carried  in  his  side 
pockets  abundance  of  additional  ammunition  for  his 
weapon.  Neither  spoke.  Neither  showed  any  agita- 
tion. 

They  pulled  up  at  the  imprint  of  horses'  hoofs  on 
the  trail  coming  up  from  one  of  the  little  side 
ravines. 

Trasker  spoke.  "Absalom,  he  don't  live  so  far  off 
from  here." 

"I  wish't  he'd  stay  at  home,"  said  David  Joslin 
moodily. 

"Look-a-here,  Dave,"  began  the  other  testily. 
"What's  the  matter  with  ye?  Is  thar  arything  in  this 
here  talk  I  heerd  about  ye  feelin'  maybe  ye  was  called 
to  be  a  preacher,  same  as  yore  daddy?" 

Joslin  replied  calmly.  "I  don't  know.  I'm  askin' 
41 


THE   WAY   OUT 

fer  a  leadin'.     I  kain't  see  that  this  here  business  is 
quite  right  no  more," 

"Ye  don't  belong  in  here  then,"  said  Trasker,  and 
half  drew  rein. 

"I  do  belong  in  here,  an'  nowhars  else  P  said  David 
Joslin.  "If  I  ever  was  called — if  I  ever  come  to  preach 
in  these  here  hills,  you-all'll  feel  I  wasn't  no  coward. 
I'm  a-goin'  to  prove  it  to  you-all  that  I  hain't." 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Trasker  succinctly,  and  again  Joslin 
led  the  way  up  the  mountain  slope. 

They  paused  presently  at  the  rendezvous  where  their 
kinsmen  presently  would  join  them,  granted  Bullock 
had  been  successful  in  passing  the  feudal  torch. 
Trasker  talked  yet  further. 

"He  was  a  great  old  sport,  yore  daddy,"  said  he, 
"I  reckon  he  was  shot  in  half  a  dozen  places  in  his 
time.  Seemed  like  they  couldn't  kill  him,  nohow.  An' 
him  an'  old  Absalom  had  it  fist  an*  skull  together 
more'n  once  in  their  day." 

Joslin  nodded.  "That  was  afore  he  took  up  preach- 
in'.  Heathen — why,  we  all  been  worse'n  ary  heathen 
in  the  world.  An'  here's  ye  an'  me  worse'n  ary 
heathen  right  now,  ridin'  out  to  squar  what  only  the 
hand  of  God  kin  squar." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Trasker,  meditatively  chewing  his 
quid,  "maybe  with  four  or  five  of  us  together  we  kin 
help  the  hand  of  God  jest  a  leetle  bit.  That's  the 
leadin'  I  git,  anyways,  for  this  evenin'." 

42 


AT  SEMMES'  COVE 

"Well,  here's  our  fellers  comm',"  he  went  on,  turn- 
ing in  his  saddle.    "Even  a  few  is  better'n  none." 

They  were  joined  now  by  three  other  riders,  Chan 
Bullock  and  two  younger  men,  one  scarce  more  than 
a  boy,  the  beard  not  yet  sprouted  on  his  face.  They 
did  not  make  even  a  salutation  as  they  drew  up  along- 
side the  two  horsemen  who  had  tarried  at  the  rendez- 
vous. 

They  turned  up  the  hillside,  once  more  resuming  the 
winding  path  along  the  crooked  divide  which  separated 
the  two  forks  of  the  main  stream  which  bored  deep 
into  the  Cumberlands  thereabouts.  They  all  knew 
well  enough  the  entry  point  for  the  head  of  Semmes* 
Cove,  and  here  in  due  time  they  halted  to  hold  counsel. 

"Sever'l  been  here,"  said  David  Joslin,  pointing  out 
the  horse  tracks  which  led  down  into  the  thickets  of 
the  unbroken  gulch  before  them.  Without  any  com- 
ment they  all  dismounted  and  advanced,  leading  their 
horses,  Joslin  ahead.  They  walked  in  this  way  for 
perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  Then  Joslin,  without 
a  word,  turned  and  tied  his  own  horse  to  a  tree,  the 
others  following  his  example. 

There  had  been  an  illicit  stillhouse  in  this  wild 
ravine  how  long  none  might  tell — in  fact,  many  still- 
houses  had  been  there  sporadically  and  spasmodically 
conducted  as  the  fancy  of  this  man  or  that  might  de- 
termine, for  the  region  was  wild  and  remote,  and  never 
visited  by  any  of  the  outside  world.    These  visitors  all 

43 


THE   WAY   OUT 

knew  well  enough  where  the  present  stillhouse  was 
hidden — in  a  thicket  of  laurel  just  at  the  edge  of  a 
rock  escarpment  which  jutted  out  upon  the  farther 
side.  They  followed  on  now  steadily,  alertly,  until  at 
length  Joslin  raised  a  hand. 

Silently  they  pushed  their  way  into  the  edge  of  the 
thicket.  Sounds  of  laughter,  of  song,  greeted  them, 
A  faint,  sickish  odor  rose  above  the  tops  of  the  low 
laurel.  The  visitors,  five  in  all  in  number — Joslin, 
Calvin  Trasker,  Chan  Bullock,  and  two  other 
"cousins,"  Nick  Cummings  and  Cole  Sennem — all 
pulled  up  at  a  point  whence  they  could  view  the  scene, 
whose  main  features  they  knew  well  enough  without 
inspection. 

There  were  a  dozen  men  here  and  there,  taking 
turns  at  the  little  copper  cups  which  stood  upon  the 
hewn  face  of  a  log.  A  couple  of  barrels,  a  copper 
pipe  between,  made  pretty  much  all  the  visible  exter- 
nal aspect  of  the  still.  The  great  bulb  was  hidden  in 
one  barrel,  the  curled  copper  tube  cooled  in  another. 
Here  and  there  lay  empty  sacks  once  carrying  corn. 
A  cup-peg  or  so  driven  into  a  tree  trunk  showed  the 
openness  and  confidence  with  which  matters  hereabout 
had  been  conducted,  and  the  spot  showed  every  sign  of 
frequent  use. 

One  of  the  men,  taking  up  one  of  the  copper  ves- 
sels from  the  low  log  table,  stooped  at  the  pipe  at  the 
foot  of  one  of  the  barrels,  watching  the  trickle  of 

44 


AT  SEMMES'  COVE 

white  liquid  which  came  forth.  He  drank  it  clear 
and  strong  as  alcohol,  undiluted.  Like  fire  it  went 
through  all  his  veins. 

"Whoopee!"  he  exclaimed,  throwing  up  a  hand. 
"I'm  the  ole  blue  hen's  chicken!  I  kin  outwrastle  er 
out  jump  er  outshoot  ary  man  here  er  anywhar's  else." 

"Ye  wouldn't  say  that  if  old  Absalom  war  here," 
laughed  a  nearby  occupant  of  a  rude  bench. 

"No,  nor  if  Old  Man  Joslin  war,  neither." 

"I  would  too!  I  hain't  a-skeered  o'  nobody,"  re- 
plied the  warlike  youth.    "I'll  show  ary  of  'em." 

"What'll  ye  show  us?"  demanded  David  Joslin. 
Silent  as  an  Indian  he  had  left  the  fringe  of  cover,  and 
stood  now  in  the  open,  his  eyes  steady,  his  arms  folded, 
looking  at  the  men  before  him.  And  now  at  his  side 
and  back  of  him  ranged  his  little  body  of  clansmen. 

Sudden  silence  fell  upon  all  those  thus  surprised. 
They  looked  at  him  in  amazement. 

"Whar's  old  Absalom?"  he  demanded  of  a  man 
whom  he  knew,  who  stood,  the  half-finished  cup  of 
liquor  still  in  his  hand. 

"Air  ye  lookin'  to  start  ary  diffikilty?"  replied  his 
neighbor,  also  with  a  question. 

"That's  fer  us  to  say,"  said  David  Joslin.  "My 
daddy's  daid.  He  got  hurt  yesterday  by  old  Absalom 
an'  his  people.  I  come  over  here  to-day  to  see  old 
Absalom  an'  ary  kin  he  happens  to  have  along  with 
him.    Whar  is  he?" 

45 


THE   WAY   OUT 

Silence  for  a  long  time  held  the  group.  It  behooved 
all  to  be  cautious. 

"He's  been  in  here  somewhar,"  went  on  Joslin, 
"an*  he  hain't  fur  now.  Tell  me,  is  he  down  at  the 
dance  house?" 

"Well,  ye  mought  go  an'  see,"  rejoined  the  first 
speaker,  grinning.  "Ye  know,  Dave  Joslin,  I  hain't 
got  no  quarl  with  ye,  nor  has  ary  o'  my  people.  Ye 
set  right  here  now,  boys,"  he  continued,  sweeping  out 
a  long  arm  toward  the  merrymakers,  who  still  lingered 
about  the  liquor  barrel. 

"Thar's  more  of  them  than  thar  is  of  ye,"  he  whis- 
pered hurriedly  to  Joslin  as  he  stepped  up.  "The 
house  is  full,  an'  they're  dancin'.  Three  or  four  gals 
from  down  on  the  Buffalo  is  in  thar  now.  They're 
havin'  a  right  big  frolic." 

Without  a  word  Joslin  turned  and  hurried  down 
the  path.  He  knew  the  location  of  the  building  to 
which  reference  had  been  made — a  long  log  structure 
rudely  floored  with  puncheons,  sometimes  employed 
locally  as  a  sort  of  adjunct  of  the  still.  The  sounds 
of  dancing,  the  music  of  one  or  two  reedy  violins,  the 
voice  of  a  caller  now  and  then,  greeted  the  party  of 
avengers  who  now  approached  this  curious  building 
hidden  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain  wilderness. 
Whether  or  not  all  of  the  occupants  of  the  dance  house 
were  of  Absalom  Gannt's  party,  neither  David  Joslin 
nor  any  one  else  might  tell.    There  might  be  a  general 

46 


AT  SEMMES'  COVE 

mingling  here  of  friend  and  foe  until  some  overt  act 
should  light  again  the  ancient  fire,  forever  smoul- 
dering. 

Joslin  beckoned  to  his  companions.  "Git  behind 
them  rocks  right  over  thar,  boys,"  he  whispered. 
"I'm  a-goin'  up  to  the  door." 

The  young  men  with  him  went  about  their  business 
with  perfect  calmness,  although  the  eye  of  each  was 
alert  and  glittering.  They  took  their  stations  under 
the  leadership  of  the  man  who  they  now  regarded  as 
the  chieftain  of  their  clan,  and  watched  him  go  to 
what  seemed  certain  death. 

Joslin  advanced  steadily  to  the  door,  his  thumbs  in 
the  waist  band  of  his  trousers.  With  his  left  hand  he 
knocked  loudly  on  the  jamb  of  the  door.  He  spoke  to 
some  one,  apparently  an  acquaintance,  who  noticed 
him. 

"Is  Absalom  Gannt  here?"  he  demanded.  "If  he  is, 
tell  him  to  come  out.    I'll  wait  till  he  comes  out  fair." 

"Good  God  A'mighty,  Davy,"  said  the  other  who 
stood  within.  "Air  ye  atter  trouble?  This  is  jest  a 
little  frolic." 

"Tell  him  to  come  out,"  repeated  Joslin.  "I  want 
Absalom  Gannt !"  The  courage  of  this  deed  went  into 
the  sagas  of  the  Cumberlands — the  act  of  a  man  who 
scorned  certain  death. 

It  must  have  been  some  friend  of  Absalom  Gannt, 
some  relative  perhaps,  who  heard  this  summons  and 

47 


THE  WAY  OUT 

saw  the  gray  face  of  David  Joslin  staring  into  the 
half-darkened  interior.  With  a  shout  he  himself 
sprang  to  the  door,  gun  in  hand.  Joslin  leaped  aside. 
As  he  did  so  he  heard  the  roar  of  a  heavy  revolver 
back  of  him.  Chan  Bullock,  the  long  blue  barrel  of 
his  six-shooter  resting  on  his  arm  at  the  top  of  the 
protecting  boulder,  fired  at  the  man  who  appeared  in 
the  door.  The  latter  fell  forward  and  slouched  over 
on  his  face,  his  head  on  his  arms. 

A  half  instant  of  silence,  then  came  the  roar  of 
a  pistol  at  the  window  near  where  Joslin  stood.  The 
men  at  the  boulders,  in  turn,  began  firing  generously 
at  every  crack  and  cranny  of  the  house,  regardless  of 
who  or  what  might  be  within.  The  marksman  at  the 
window  was  deliberate.  With  care  he  rested  the  bar- 
rel of  his  weapon  against  the  window  sash.  At  its 
third  report,  Joslin  heard  back  of  him  a  heavy  groan, 
but  he  did  not  see  Calvin  Trasker  roll  over  on  his 
back,  his  doubled  arm  across  his  face. 

The  sound  of  gunfire  now  was  general  on  every  side. 
None  might  say  who  was  harmed,  who  as  yet  was  safe. 
As  for  Joslin,  he  had  work  to  do.  Absalom  Gannt 
was  still  inside  the  house. 

He  stepped  forward  again  deliberately  to  the  door, 
pushed  aside  the  man  who  stood  there  peering  out, 
and  broke  his  way  into  the  crowd.  Two  or  three 
women,  cowering,  shrank  into  the  farther  corner  of 
the  room.    Men  stood  here  and  there,  each  with  weapon 

48 


AT  SEMMES'  COVE 

in  hand.    The  acrid  taste  of  gunpowder,  which  hung 
in  the  blue  pall  of  smoke,  was  in  the  nostrils  of  all. 

"Absalom  Gannt!"  rose  the  high,  clear  voice  of 
David  Joslin,  "I've  come  fer  ye.  Come  out  here  an* 
meet  me  fair  if  ye  hain't  a  coward.  Absalom  Gannt! 
Absalom  Gannt " 

That  was  the  last  word  the  friends  of  David  Joslin 
heard  him  speak,  and,  as  they  told  the  story,  it  was 
apparent  that  the  Joslin  blood  "never  flickered  onct." 

What  happened  to  David  Joslin  they  did  not  know 
— he  himself  did  not.  He  was  perhaps  conscious  of  a 
heavy  blow  at  the  base  of  his  head,  then  came  uncon- 
sciousness, oblivion.  He  fell  upon  the  floor  of  the 
rude  revel  house. 

Firing  ceased  now.  The  occupants  of  the  cabin 
rushed  out.  The  defenders  of  the  line  of  boulders, 
three  only  in  number  now,  broke  and  sprang  up  the 
mountain  side,  pursued  by  a  rain  of  bullets  which 
touched  none  of  them. 

The  frolic  at  Semmes'  Cove  had  found  its  ending — 
not  an  unusual  ending  for  such  scenes. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   AWAKENING   OF  DAVID   JOSLIN 

IN  the  old  apple  orchard  of  Preacher  Joslin — whose 
gnarled  trees  had  been  planted  by  some  unknown 
hand  unknown  years  ago — a  long  and  narrow 
rift  showed  in  the  rocky  soil.  The  owner  of  these 
meager  acres  was  now  come  to  his  rest,  here  by  the 
side  of  many  others  of  his  kin  whose  graves,  un- 
marked, lay  here  or  there,  no  longer  identified  under 
the  broken  branches  of  the  trees. 

A  neighbor  blacksmith  had  wrought  sufficient  nails 
to  hold  together  a  rough  box.  In  this  he  and  Granny 
Joslin  had  placed  the  dead  man.  Word  passed  up 
and  down  the  little  creek  that  the  burying  of  Andrew 
Joslin  would  be  at  noon  that  day;  so  one  by  one 
horses  came  splashing  down  the  creek — usually  car' 
rying  a  man  with  a  woman  back  of  him,  the  woman 
sometimes  carrying  one  child,  sometimes  two. 

These  brought  fresh  word.  Calvin  Trasker,  killed 
in  the  frolic  at  Semmes'  Cove,  had  already  been  buried. 
He  was  accounted  well  avenged.  It  was  almost  sure 
he  had  killed  his  man  before  he  had  received  his  own 
death  wound.     As   for  Chan   Bullock  and  his   two 

50 


THE  AWAKENING 

young  cousins,  they  were  no  less  than  heroes.  Four 
of  the  Gannt  family  had  been  left  accounted  for, 
whether  by  aim  of  the  fallen  or  that  of  the  three  es- 
caping feudists  none  might  say.  The  Joslins  had  none 
the  worst  of  it.  Had  not  one  of  them — which,  no  one 
could  tell — fired  the  shot  which  broke  old  Absalom's 
arm  ?  This  funeral  party,  practically  a  rallying  of  the 
Joslin  clan,  was  no  time  more  of  special  mourning 
than  of  exultation.  The  talk  was  not  so  much  of  the 
dead  man,  not  so  much  of  the  dead  man's  son  David, 
who  was  still  missing,  as  it  was  of  the  victory  attained 
over  the  rival  clan.  # 

And  so  they  buried  Preacher  Joslin,  and  thereafter, 
all  having  been  duly  concluded,  and  a  simple,  unmarked 
stone  having  been  set  up  at  the  head  of  his  grave,  old 
Granny  Joslin,  robbed  of  her  son  and  her  son's  son, 
asked  them  once  more  to  eat  of  what  she  had,  and  so 
presently  bade  them  good-by. 

"I'll  git  along  somehow,  folks,"  said  she.  "Don't 
you-all  worry  none  about  me.  If  Davy's  daid,  why, 
he's  daid,  an'  that's  all  about  it.  Atter  a  few  days, 
you-all  go  over  in  thar  an'  watch  for  buzzards  an' 
crows — if  they  hain't  buried  him  deep,  we'll  find  out 
whar  he's  at." 

But  after  the  funeral  party  had  departed,  plashing 
their  way  back  up  the  creek-bed  road,  Granny  Joslin 
sat  down  to  make  her  own  accounting.  David — her 
boy  Davy — the  one  who  understood  her — whom  she 

51 


THE  WAY  OUT 

understood  so  well — where  was  he?  Had  they  indeed 
killed  him  ?  Was  he  lying  out  there  in  the  mountains 
somewhere,  his  last  resting  place  unknown  to  any  save 
his  enemies? 

"Curse  the  last  of  them — them  cowardly  Gannts!" 
Again  she  raised  her  skinny  hand  in  malediction. 
"May  mildew  fall  on  them  an*  theirs.  May  their 
blood  fail  to  breed,  an'  may  they  know  sorrer  an' 
trouble  all  their  lives!  I  wish  to  God  I  was  a 
man.  Oh,  God,  bring  me  back  my  man — my  boy 
Davy!" 

But  the  mountain  side  against  which  she  looked, 
against  which  she  spoke,  made  no  answer  to  her.  She 
sat  alone.  A  film  came  over  her  fierce  eye  like  that 
which  crosses  the  eye  of  a  dying  hawk.  Whether  or 
not  a  tear  eventually  might  have  fallen  may  not  be 
said,  but  before  that  time  old  Granny  Joslin  rose,  grunt- 
ing, and  hobbled  back  into  her  own  desolate  home. 
She  lighted  the  fire.  She  set  all  things  in  order.  The 
castle  of  the  Joslins  had  not  yet  been  taken.  But  David 
came  not  back  that  day,  nor  upon  the  third,  nor  yet 
upon  the  fourth  day.  By  that  time  she  had  given  him 
up  for  dead. 

Yet  it  was  upon  the  morning  of  that  fourth  day 
that  David  Joslin  himself  sat  concealed,  high  upon  the 
mountain  side,  and  looked  down  upon  the  broken  home 
of  Granny  Joslin.  He  saw  the  smoke  curling  up  from 
the  chimney,  and  knew  it  as  the  banner  of  defiance. 

52 


THE  AWAKENING 

He  knew  that  the  old  dame  would  live  out  her  life  to 
its  end  according  to  her  creed. 

His  keen  eye  saw  the  new  mound  in  the  apple  or- 
chard— the  broken  clay  now  dried  in  the  sun  of  several 
days.  He  could  guess  the  rest.  For  himself,  he  was 
alive.  He  had  been  dead,  but  now  he  was  born 
again. 

At  the  end  of  the  fight  in  Semmes*  Cove,  there  was 
a  general  scattering  and  confusion.  The  Gannt  party 
finally  had  taken  care  of  their  own  dead  and  wounded, 
and,  passing  on  up  the  ravine  toward  the  usual  paths 
of  escape,  had  tarried  at  the  stillhouse  only  long 
enough  to  refresh  themselves  as  was  their  need.  For 
those  of  the  attacking  party  left  behind  they  had  small 
care.  A  man  or  two  was  down  somewhere  behind  the 
rocks.  As  for  the  man  who  had  broken  into  the  house 
— David  Joslin — he  was  dead.  Had  they  not  caught 
him  neck  and  crop,  and  thrown  him  headlong  into  the 
gully?  Yes,  one  thing  was  sure,  David  Joslin  was 
dead ;  and  he  had  been  the  leader  of  the  attack.  There- 
fore, the  Gannts  accounted  themselves  as  having  won 
a  coup  also  for  their  side  of  the  feud. 

When  Joslin  awoke  to  the  consciousness  of  bitter 
pain,  he  reached  out  a  hand  in  the  darkness  which  en- 
shrouded him.  He  felt  damp  earth.  So,  then,  he  rea- 
soned, he  was  dead  and  buried,  and  this  was  his  grave ! 
For  some  time  he  made  no  attempt  to  breathe  or  to 
move.    Yes,  this  was  his  grave.    He  lay  he  knew  not 

53 


THE  WAY  OUT 

how  long  in  the  full  realization  that  life  was  done  for 
him. 

Then,  as  the  cool  of  the  night  refreshed  him,  he  felt 
about  him,  felt  the  weeping  of  dew-damp  leaves  above 
him,  and  slowly  reasoned  that  he  was  not  dead  at  all, 
and  not  in  his  grave,  but  that  he  had  been  flung  some- 
where here  into  the  bottom  of  the  ravine. 

Slowly  he  struggled  to  his  knees.  He  staggered  up 
the  side  of  the  slope  as  best  he  might,  more  by  chance 
than  otherwise,  taking  that  side  which  lay  nearest  the 
dance  house.  He  saw  in  the  gloom  the  low  boulders, 
behind  which  his  fighting  men  had  lain.  He  stumbled 
across  the  dead  body  of  Calvin  Trasker,  left  where  he 
had  fallen.  There  remained  to  him  sensibility  enough 
to  put  the  dead  man's  hat  across  his  face ;  but  he  could 
do  no  more  than  that.  He  knew  that  if  he  were  found 
here  he  would  be  killed  indeed.  So,  knowing  that 
there  was  no  longer  need  for  him  or  chance  for  him 
here,  he  staggered  on  down  the  ravine  of  Semmes' 
Cove,  until  at  length  he  could  go  no  farther,  and  so  fell 
once  more  unconscious. 

When  again  he  awoke  it  was  broad  sunshine.  How 
long  he  had  lain  he  could  not  tell.  But  now  thirst  as- 
sailed him,  thirst  which  he  might  quench  in  the  trickle 
of  water  which  lay  below.  The  provender  of  the 
woods,  a  few  nuts,  a  pawpaw  or  so,  seemed  grateful 
to  him  now.  He  staggered  on,  knowing  that  it  would 
be  no  more  than  two  or  three  miles  down  the  ravine 

54 


THE  AWAKENING 

until  he  came  to  the  little  camp  he  had  made  in  the 
rain,  after  he  had  left  his  own  home  on  that  unhappy 
day.  And  so  at  length  he  found  that  bivouac  and 
dropped  into  the  bed  of  rotten  wood  once  more,  and  lay 
prostrate  all  that  day  and  the  next. 

It  was  really  upon  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day 
after  the  encounter — although  Joslin  himself  could  not 
have  said  as  to  that — that,  strong  enough  now  to  walk, 
he  staggered  out  of  the  thicket-covered  lower  entrance 
of  Semmes,  Cove  into  the  little  creek  bed,  which  made 
the  path  to  his  father's  home.  He  must  look  once 
more  at  the  house  where  he  himself  was  born. 

Was  born,  did  he  say?  No,  he  had  been  born  a 
second  time !  In  these  long  hours  of  misery  and  pain, 
David  Joslin  had  taken  accounting  as  best  he  might 
with  life  and  the  philosophies  thereof.  In  his  fashion 
of  thought,  he  had  gained  the  conviction  that  his  "call" 
had  come  to  him.  He  was  called  for  a  different  life. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  New  duties  lay  before 
him — all  of  a  new  life — because  he  had  been  born 
again !  To  him  his  salvation  was  not  less  than  a  mir- 
acle, and  he  accepted  it  as  such  solemnly  and  rever- 
ently, feeling  himself  now  consecrated  fully  for  some 
cause.  What  the  form  of  that  consecration  might  be 
he  himself  did  not  clearly  know  as  yet. 

But  there  came  to  him,  with  this  feeling,  the  solemn 
conviction  that  he  must  leave  this  country.  This  op- 
portunity seemed  to  him  providential.     No,  he  would 

55 


THE  WAY  OUT 

not  even  go  to  say  farewell  to  his  wife,  nor  to  greet 
his  grandma,  Granny  Joslin,  to  give  counsel  to  her. 
He,  being  dead,  must  depart  secretly  forever  from  these 
hills  until  he  might  return  to  them  to  do  the  thing 
given  him  to  do. 

Such,  unnatural  and  hard  as  that  might  seem  to 
others,  was  the  ancient,  grim,  uncompromising  creed 
of  David  Joslin  of  the  Cumberlands.  Let  the  dead  bury 
its  dead.    Let  the  living  live  their  own  lives. 

Weakly,  slowly,  he  climbed  along  the  mountain  side 
above  the  creek  bed,  to  avoid  any  passerby,  and  so  at 
length  reached  the  point  upon  the  opposing  hill  whence 
he  might  look  down  upon  the  little  home  once  owned 
by  the  man  who  lay  there  now,  under  the  drying  yellow 
ridge  in  the  apple  orchard  planted  by  his  sires. 

How  long  David  Joslin  sat  here,  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  he  himself  might  not  have  told.  He  sat  looking 
down,  pondering,  resolving.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  was  born 
again!    What  must  he  do? 

At  length  he  rose,  staggeringly  rose,  seeking  about 
for  some  broken  branch  to  aid  him  further  in  his 
journey.    For  now  he  purposed  a  long,  long  journey    | 
out  from  these  hills.     He  was  going  away  from  his 
own  people ! 

His  hand  fell  against  something  hard  in  the  side 
pocket  of  his  ragged  coat.  It  was  the  old  book  he  had 
borrowed  of  his  father — the  well-thumbed  volume  of 
Calvin's  Institutes.    His  belt  and  revolver  were  gone 

56 


THE  AWAKENING 

— he  knew  not  where — but  here  was  this  ancient,  iron 
book.  He  recalled  now,  with  the  tenacious  memory  of 
the  mountaineer,  a  passage  which  he  had  read  therein : 

Truly,  I  have  no  refuge  but  in  Him.  Let  no  man 
flatter  himself,  for  of  himself  he  is  only  a  devil.  For 
what  have  you  of  your  own  but  sin?  Take  for  yourself 
sin,  which  is  your  own.  Your  righteousness  belongs  to 
God.  Nature  is  wounded,  distressed  and  ruined.  It 
needs  a  true  confession,  not  a  false  defense. 

"A  true  confession — not  a  false  defense !"  All  the 
honesty,  all  the  ignorance,  all  the  hope  of  these  moun- 
tains were  in  the  mind  of  David  Joslin,  as  he  repeated 
these  vague  words  of  the  old  mystic  to  himself.  He 
now  felt  himself  a  prophet. 

And  now,  a  prophet,  he  was  going  out  into  the 
world. 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   WANDERING   WOMEN 

WHEN  Joslin  finally  rose  and  set  his  face 
away  from  the  sight  of  the  hearth  fire  he 
had  known,  with  staff  and  scrip  to  start  out 
into  the  world,  he  followed  along  the  winding  height 
of  land  below  the  summit  leading  towards  Hell-fer- 
Sartin — the  objective  of  his  father's  last  circuit  riding. 
Here  he  crossed  the  Bull  Skin  Valley,  fording  the  shal- 
low stream,  and  made  directly  into  the  harder  going 
of  the  divide  between  that  stream  and  the  Redbird. 
Feeding  himself  as  best  he  might,  he  lay  out  yet  an- 
other night  in  the  hills ;  but  by  this  time  the  seasoned 
vigor  of  his  own  frame  began  to  reassert  itself.  He 
grew  stronger  in  spite  of  the  pain  of  his  wound,  in 
spite  of  his  long  abstention  from  wholesome  food.  He 
evaded  all  sounds  of  life  at  the  little  farms  scattered 
here  and  there  among  the  mountains.  A  rail  fence 
caused  him  to  turn  aside;  the  sight  of  a  smoke  drove 
him  deeper  back  into  the  hills. 

It  was  perhaps  ten  o'clock  of  the  second  morning, 
when  he  found  himself  on  the  river  trail  of  a  fork 
of  the  Kentucky  River,  that  he  paused  at  the  sound 

58 


THE  WANDERING  WOMEN 

of  a  human  voice.  It  seemed  not  to  be  approaching, 
but  stationary — a  woman's  voice,  now  raised  in  some 
sort  of  old  ballad  tune.  It  seemed  to  him  he  might  go 
forward. 

She  sat  on  a  pallet  of  leaves  at  the  side  of  the  road, 
a  little  above  its  level,  in  a  sort  of  natural  cave  or  open- 
ing in  the  cliff  face.  A  shelf  of  limestone  extended 
out  perhaps  twenty  feet,  and  left  under  it  a  sort  of 
open-faced  cavern.  The  roof  was  black  with  many 
smokes — it  always  had  been  black  with  smoke  since 
the  memory  of  white  men  in  that  region;  for  here, 
tradition  told,  had  dwelt  the  last  two  Indians  of  the 
Cumberlands,  when  the  whites  rallied  and  slew  them 
both.  This  white  woman  had  taken  up  the  ancient 
lair  of  men  scarce  more  wild  than  she  herself  seemed 
now. 

She  was  an  old-seeming  woman,  albeit  perhaps  once 
comely.  Her  dark  hair,  not  fully  grayed,  fell  about 
a  face  once  small- featured,  large-eyed.  What  charm 
she  once  had  had  was  past  or  passing;  yet  something 
of  her  philosophy  of  life  remained,  enabling  her  to 
sing  at  this  hour  in  the  morning. 

"Howdy,  stranger,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with 
a  direct  and  easy  familiarity  singular  enough  in  the 
circumstances,  for  the  mountain  women  are  shy  and 
silent  with  men.    "\Vhar  ye  bound?" 

"Howdy,"  said  David  Joslin.  "I'm  a-goin'  down 
the  creek  a  ways." 

59 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"If  ye  air,  I  wish  ye'd  see  if  my  darter  is  along  in 
the  field  below.  Tell  her  to  come  on  back  home.  She's 
got  her  little  girl  along  with  her — ye'll  know  'em  if 
ye  see  'em." 

"Home?"  said  David  Joslin  rather  vaguely,  looking 
at  the  blackened  roof  of  the  cavern.  The  woman 
laughed. 

"All  the  home  we  got,  my  darter  an'  me.  We've 
lived  here  off  an'  on  many  a  year.  They  call  me 
Annie.  They  call  her  Min.  Hit's  no  difference  about 
the  rest  of  the  name." 

"I  know  ye  hain't  born  in  these  parts  or  ye'd  know 
about  us  two,"  she  continued.  "This  has  been  my 
home — all  I've  ever  had  in  my  life — I  kain't  say  how 
many  years.  I  move  up  an'  down.  Sometimes  I'm 
up  on  Big  Creek — sometimes  on  the  Kaintucky.  I 
follow  the  rafts.  I've  even  been  Outside.  Min, 
she  nuwer  has.  Some  of  my  other  girls  has, 
maybe." 

"Yore  other  girls?"  began  Joslin. 

"I've  had  seven  children — four  girls,"  said  she 
quietly,  unemotionally. 

"I  don't  know  yore  fam'ly,"  said  David  Joslin,  hesi- 
tating still. 

"I  hain't  got  no  fam'ly,  I  told  ye,  an'  I  don't  come 
o'  no  fam'ly.  Us  two  lives  here  together — we're  the 
wanderin'  wimmern — that's  what  they  call  us  in  this 
country.    Don't  ye  know  about  us? 

60 


THE   WANDERING  WOMEN 

"Well,  now" — and  she  turned  her  once  bold  eyes 
upon  him  with  renewed  defiance,  as  he  did  not  reply — 
"I  told  ye  I'd  had  seven  children.  Ye  want  to  know 
who's  the  father  of  Min?  I  kain't  tell  ye  rightly. 
She  couldn't  tell  ye  rightly  who's  the  father  of  her 
girl  she's  got  along  with  her  now.  I've  had  seven 
children.  Who's  their  fathers? — I  don't  know. 
What's  more,  I  don't  keen  What's  the  difference? 
Who  air  we,  back  in  the  hills?  What  chancet  have 
we  got?" 

Joslin  stood  leaning  on  his  staff,  pale,  hollow-eyed, 
gaunt.  In  his  eyes  was  a  vast  pity,  a  terrible  under- 
standing. 

"Kin  I  wait  here  for  a  minute  or  so?"  said  he.  "I'm 
right  tired." 

"Ye've  been  hurt,"  said  she,  pointing  to  his  band- 
aged head,  for  which  he  had  made  such  care  as  he 
might.  "Well,  I  don't  ask  ye  no  questions.  I've  seen 
plenty  of  men  hurt,  in  the  raftin'  times." 

"We're  stoppin'  here  now,"  she  went  on  explaining. 
"Because,  mought  come  a  tide  any  time,  an'  then  the 
rafts'll  come.  They  tie  up  yander  at  the  big  tree  thar 
— the  men  come  acrosst.  Well,  here's  home  for  Min 
an'  me.  She's  young.  I'm  gittin'  pretty  old.  Few 
cares  fer  such  as  me." 

Then  she  went  on.  "That's  our  life,  stranger.  Ye 
kin  tfiiess  the  rest.  We're  the  wanderin'  wimmera. 
There's  no  hope  fer  us.    We  never  had  no  chancet." 

61 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Kin  ye  read?"  asked  David  Joslin  quietly.  "Kin 
ye  write?    Kin  yore  darter?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"I  kin  read  jest  a  little  bit,"  said  he  himself  slowly. 
"I  kin  write  jest  a  little  bit.  Ye  say  ye've  had  no 
chancet  That's  true.  What  chancet  have  ary  of  us 
here?  Whar  can  we  learn  anything?  Fm  a-goin* 
Outside.    I'm  a-goin'  on  a  journey." 

"Set  down  an*  eat,"  said  she,  with  the  unfailing 
hospitality  of  the  mountains.  "We  hain't  got  much. 
I  kin  parch  ye  some  corn,  maybe.  Min's  down  below 
trying  to  find  some  hickernuts  an*  some  corn.  Folks 
don't  mind  our  foragin*  around.  Why,  even  some- 
times I've  slept  in  a  cabin  now  an'  then.  They  don't 
mind  if  we  sleep  in  the  corn  cribs  sometimes  when  the 
weather's  cold.  The  husks  is  right  warm — warmer'n 
leaves,  I  kin  tell  ye  that." 

Joslin  looked  about  him.  A  ragged  gunny  sack  or 
so,  a  quilt  or  two,  were  heaped  into  one  corner  over 
a  pile  of  leaves — there  was  no  other  sign  of  couch. 
In  another  corner  of  the  cavern  a  blackened  spot 
showed  where  they  built  their  fire.  With  flint  and 
steel  the  old  woman  now  began  her  fire  anew.  There 
was  a  broken  bit  of  iron,  once  a  skillet.  In  this  she 
managed  to  parch  some  grains  of  corn  for  the  traveler. 

"Eat,  stranger,"  said  she.  "Hit's  from  Annie,  the 
wanderin'  womern,  that  never  had  a  chancet." 

He  ate,  and  drank  from  a  broken  gourd  of  water 

62 


THE   WANDERING  WOMEN 

which  she  gave  to  him.  For  a  time  he  sat  looking 
across  the  pageant  of  the  hills,  still  radiant  in  their 
autumn  finery. 

At  length  he  placed  a  hand  in  his  pocket.  "Take 
this,"  said  he.  "I've  got  just  thirty-five  cents.  I'll 
keep  the  dime,  fer  I  mought  need  it.  I  know  the  peo- 
ple in  the  mountings  don't  take  pay  fer  what  they  give 
to  eat,  but  won't  ye  please  take  this  ?" 

"What  do  ye  mean,  man?"  said  she  looking  at 
him  curiously,  but  refusing  the  money  which  he  of- 
fered. "Ye  seem  like  a  quare  feller  to  me.  Air  ye 
outen  yore  haid?" 

"Maybe  I  got  some  good  sense  knocked  into  my 
haid,  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  I'm  a-goin'  Out- 
side." 

"Outside  ?"  The  voice  of  the  old  woman  was  low. 
"I've  got  some  girls — Outside,  somewhar.  Ye  mustn't 
say  they  wasn't  my  children,  for  they  was.  They  nuv- 
ver  only  had  no  chancet." 

"I  know  that,"  said  David  Joslin.  "That's  why  I'm 
a-goin'  out.  I'm  a-goin'  to  try  some  time,  somehow, 
to  make  a  school,  er  a  church,  er  something,  in  these 
hills.  We've  got  to  learn  how  to  read  an'  write. 
I've  got  a  callin'  that  that's  what  we'd  orter  do.  I 
never  seen  ye  before — maybe  I  never  will  again — but 
listen  now.  Some  time,  if  I  ever  build  a  school,  I'm 
a-goin'  to  build  another  one  right  in  here."  His  eyes 
were  streaming  tears. 

63 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"I'll  tell  ye  the  place,"  said  she  eagerly.  "Down 
below,  about  hafe  a  mile,  thar's  a  place  whar  two  stones 
come  together — great  big  ones.  Thar's  a  level  floor 
under  that,  wider'n  the  floor  of  this  here  place,  an*  it's 
covered  in  from  the  rain.  Thar's  leaves  thar — ye  could 
fetch  in  pine  needles  a-plenty  if  ye  wanted  to,  fer 
thar's  pine  about.  Rain  or  shine  ye  could  hold  school 
down  thar.    Hit  would  be  sich  a  purty  place." 

"Good  luck,  stranger,"  said  she.  "Ye  may  be  crazy 
— I  reckon  ye  air — but  God  knows  thar  orter  be 
more  crazy  people  like  that  in  these  hills." 

Her  guest  turned  and  followed  on  down  the  wind- 
ing stream  in  the  muddy  pathway.  A  quarter  or  a 
half-mile  below,  he  paused  and  looked  across  the  vine- 
covered  remnant  of  what  once  had  been  a  rail  fence. 
He  had  heard  a  rustling  in  the  corn,  and  saw  now  the 
figure  of  a  young  woman  who  stood  looking  at  him; 
at  her  side,  clinging  to  her  tattered  skirt,  a  young  child, 
perhaps  four  or  five  years  old.  This  child  had  in  her 
little  apron  a  store  of  nuts,  gathered  in  the  wood 
beyond.  Her  mother  carried  half  an  armful  of  ears 
of  con. 

"Howdy,"  called  David  Joslin  across  the  fence,  in 
customary  salutation  of  the  hills. 

"Howdy,"  she  replied,  but  still  stood  motionless. 

"Won't  ye  come  up  a  little  closeter?"  he  resumed. 
"Yore  mammy  up  yander " 

The  young  woman  slowly  advanced,  the  child  cling- 

64 


THE  WANDERING  WOMEN 

ing  still  to  her  skirt.  She  was  a  wild-looking  creature, 
but  quite  comely,  with  a  sort  of  Indian  cast  to  her  fea- 
tures, her  skin  dark,  whether  with  sun  or  with  other 
blood  none  might  tell.  Her  eyes  were  black  as  night, 
and  her  figure  lean  and  slender,  not  quite  so  angular 
as  that  of  the  average  mountain  woman.  Young 
enough  she  was,  and  goodly  enough  she  might  have 
been  if  ever  she  "had  had  her  chance." 

The  child  at  her  skirt,  an  elfin  youngster,  had  much 
of  her  mother's  darkness  of  hair  and  eyes,  her  moth- 
er's wide  mouth  of  white,  even  teeth,  a  thing  unusual 
thereabouts.  She  now  stood  staring  straight  at  the 
stranger,  motionless  and  silent. 

"Ye're  Min,  I  reckon,"  began  David  Joslin.  "Yore 
mammy — she  told  me  to  find  ye  an'  tell  ye  to  go  on 
home  now,  that  it's  nearly  time  fer  breakfast." 

"Who  air  ye,  stranger?"  asked  the  young  woman. 
"Which  way  ye  bound  ?" 

"My  name  is  David  Joslin,"  he  replied.  "I  live,  or 
useter  live,  over  on  the  Bull  Skin,  near  the  mouth  of 
Coal  Creek." 

"What's  yore  business?    Air  ye  lookin'  fer  logs?" 

"No,  I  hain't.     I'm  a-goin'  Outside." 

She  stood  staring  at  him,  uncertain,  silent,  awk- 
ward. David  Joslin  returned  her  gaze  with  his  own 
frank,  gray  eyes.  "Ye've  lived  jest  the  way  ye  could," 
said  he.  "Ye  needn't  tell  me  nothin'.  I  know  about 
the  raftsmen.     I've  been  a  raftsman  myself.    I've  been 

65 


THE  WAY  OUT 

Outside  many  times.  I  run  down  the  other  fork,  don't 
ye  see?  I'm  yore  own  sort  of  people.  I  hain't  no 
better'n  ye,  God  knows. 

"I've  got  to  be  goin*  now,"  he  added.  "I  hope  to 
see  ye  agin  some  time  in  here.  I'm  jest  a-goin'  Out- 
side fer  a  little  while,  ontel  I  can  learn  to  read  an' 
write." 

"I  reckon  ye  don't  know  all  about  us — my  mammy 
and  me,"  she  began,  a  slrw  flush  now  upon  her  face. 
This  was  a  different  sorl;  of  man — %  preacher,  per- 
haps? 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  I  know  all  I  need  to  know  or  want 
to  know.    I  know  ye  nuwer  had  no  chancet" 

"I'll  say  good-by  now,"  he  added,  extending  a  hand, 
which  wandered  to  the  tangled  crown  of  the  little  girl. 

And  so  he  turned  and  left  her  standing  there,  the 
child  at  her  side,  the  wild  forage  of  the  mountains  to 
be  their  sustenance  no  one  might  say  yet  how  long. 
When  the  raftsmen  came 


CHAPTER  VII 

rfHE   FABRIC  OF   A  VISION 

THE  mountaineer's  keen  eye  noted  a  change  in 
the  river  along  which  his  pathway  led.  There 
had  been  rain  back  in  the  hills,  and  now  what 
the  mountaineers  call  a  "tide"  was  coming  down, 
discoloring  the  stream.  Passing  more  than  one  aban- 
doned raft,  its  logs  submerged  in  the  sand,  at  length 
he  stopped,  having  spied  a  pair  of  great  logs  of 
the  yellow  poplar,  such  as  the  raftsmen  use  as  floaters 
for  the  hardwood  logs  they  make  up  into  their  rafts. 
Himself  an  experienced  river  man,  he  saw  now  the 
means  of  hastening  his  progress. 

With  aid  of  a  hardwood  lever,  he  managed  to  get 
both  his  logs  afloat  in  the  deep  pool  at  whose  edge  they 
lay.  Waist  deep  he  waded,  binding  his  logs  together 
with  a  length  of  grapevine,  which  he  tore  from  a  near- 
by tree.  He  found  here  and  there  some  bits  of  boards, 
flotsam  and  jetsam  of  the  stream,  and  on  these,  spread 
crosswise,  he  laid  bits  of  brush,  making  a  little  mound 
midships  of  his  craft.  When  presently  he  had  found 
a  twelve- foot  pole  for  guiding  oar,  he  had  done  his 
work  in  building  himself  a  boat.    He  stepped  aboard 

67 


THE  WAY  OUT 

it  with  the  confidence  of  the  river  man.  He  knew  the 
stream  would  carry  him  three,  four  or  five  miles  an 
hour,  sometimes  six  miles,  in  its  more  rapid  reaches. 
He  advanced,  bend  after  bend,  through  a  beautiful 
panorama  of  flame-decked  river  banks  now  gilded  by 
the  failing  sun.  He  heard  sometimes  the  bells  of  wan- 
dering cattle,  now  and  again  the  lowing  of  a  cow,  the 
neighing  of  a  horse ;  and  saw  by  the  river  banks  many 
a  home  of  a  mountaineer  who  had  settled  here  none 
might  say  when.  But  the  eyes  of  David  Joslin  were 
not  for  these  things. 

It  was  sunset  when  the  hurrying  flood  of  the  river 
brought  him  to  the  mouth  of  that  other  tributary  in 
whose  valley  he  himself  had  dwelt  all  these  years. 
Here  was  the  confluence  of  the  two  main  forks  of  the 
Kentucky.  He  knew  every  house  of  the  little  village 
at  the  forks,  every  feature  of  the  hills,  which  rose 
about  the  village  on  either  side. 

He  swung  straight  past,  on  the  bosom  of  the  rising 
and  augmented  river,  his  craft  swimming  steadily 
enough  under  his  accustomed  guidance.  He  scarce 
saw  the  little  houses,  their  smoke  rising  for  the  even- 
ing meal.  It  was  something  more  which  came  to  his 
gaze  as  he  traveled  here. 

He  saw,  or  thought  he  saw — it  might  have  been  but 
the  ragged  heads  of  thunder  clouds  beyond  the  rim 
of  the  hills — the  roofs  and  stacks  of  buildings — not 
one,  but  many  buildings.    They  sat  there  on  the  hill 

68 


THE   FABRIC   OF  A  VISION 

that  rose  above  the  town — yes,  he  was  sure  of  it. 
There  were  many  of  them — there  was  a  city  of  them! 
Yonder  on  the  hill  there  stood  again  visualized  the 
thing  which  he  had  dreamed!  It  was  but  a  vision, 
caught  for  an  instant  as  the  yellow  flood  of  the  river 
swept  him  on,  but  it  was  enough  for  David  Joslin.  A 
strange  confidence  came  to  him.  He  felt  all  the 
zeal  of  the  old  covenanters,  the  assurance  that 
God  was  with  him,  and  that  his  "calling"  now  was 
clear. 

But  the  Kentucky  River,  coming  into  full  tide, 
mocked  at  a  man  who  thought  of  anything  else  but 
things  at  hand.  Joslin  knew  what  was  on  ahead  a 
few  miles — the  great  Narrows  of  the  Kentucky,  fatal 
to  many  a  raft  and  many  a  raftsman.  Here,  at  the 
foot  of  a  long  reach  of  still  water,  lay  a  great  rock 
dam,  where  the  hillsides  came  close  together.  The 
river,  narrowed  and  compressed,  was  flung  furiously 
out  over  the  rock  ledge,  to  drop  a  certain  distance,  and 
then  to  curl  up  and  back  in  a  high  white  wave  extend- 
ing entirely  across  the  stream — what  the  raftsmen 
always  called  the  "king  breaker"  of  the  Narrows. 

There  was  a  sort  of  pathway  along  the  sides  of  the 
Narrows,  by  which  one  could  come  below  the  big 
swell,  but  Joslin,  whether  moody  and  distrait,  whether 
in  indifference,  or  whether  resolved  to  take  his  chances 
and  test  his  fate,  made  no  attempt  to  land  his  frail 
craft.     He  headed  straight  for  the  great  stretch  of 

69 


THE  WAY  OUT 

slack  water,  which  lay  above  the  rolling  crest  of  the 
Narrows. 

Always  he  had  been  chosen  steersman  for  his  raft 
in  the  river  work  he  knew,  and  he  knew  this  spot  well 
enough — the  fatalities  which  attended  it — but  he  did 
not  hesitate,  and  with  his  long  sweep  straightened  his 
'jraft  for  what  he  knew  would  be  the  great  plunge. 
He  took  it  fair,  crouching  forward,  his  knees  bent,  his 
eyes  ahead,  just  as  he  had  steered  more  than  one  raft 
through  in  earlier  times,  and  caught  the  full  blow  of 
the  great  wave,  as  he  plunged  from  the  darkness  into 
the  white  of  the  stream,  now  under  the  blanket  of  the 
twilight  in  the  deep  defile. 

He  was  flung  entirely  free  of  his  two  logs,  as  they 
were  rent  asunder  by  the  force  of  the  swell.  He  went 
down  into  the  white — how  deep  he  could  not  tell — 
perhaps  half-way  down  to  the  bottom  of  the  great 
pool  which  lay  below  the  Narrows.  He  emerged, 
dazed,  but  his  arm  found  no  supporting  logs — the  two 
had  been  flung  far  apart,  and  by  this  time  were  rolling 
down  the  middle  course  of  the  white  water.  With 
what  strength  remained  to  liim,  he  struck  out  for  the 
right-hand  shore,  and  had  strength  enough  to  fling 
up  a  hand  and  ease  himself  of  the  current  along  the 
rock  ledge. 

For  a  time  he  swung,  breathing  hard,  then  drew 
himself  up  and  out,  and  lay  flat  upon  the  rocks.  It 
was  almost  night,  and  it  was  cold.     He  was  chilled 

70 


THE  FABRIC  OF  A  VISION 

and  weak.  He  had  traveled  long  and  far  without  rest, 
and  without  sufficient  food.  But  the  rugged  rearing  he 
had  had  stood  him  once  more  in  stead.  He  managed 
once  more,  by  means  of  his  priceless  flint  and  steel,  to 
build  him  a  little  fire,  though  \ow  he  lived  through  the 
night  he  scarce  could  say. 

He  knew  that  it  was  thirty  miles  down  to  the  first 
settlement  below,  and  that  there  were  few  houses  be- 
tween. He  must  walk.  Half  barefooted,  penniless, 
hungered,  wearied  and  weak,  he  staggered  on  as  though 
a  man  in  a  trance.  At  least  he  was  able  to  make  his 
painful  way  all  those  weary  miles.  It  was  again  even- 
ing, and  late,  when  at  length  he  saw  the  red  lights 
of  the  little  mill  town  of  Windsor,  where  more  than 
once  before  then  he  had  pulled  up  with  others  of  the 
wild  raftsmen,  among  whom  he  had  spent  his  youth. 

He  was  at  the  edge  of  the  great  Outside.  This  was 
Ultima  Thule  for  the  hardwood  rafts.  And  all  of 
Thule,  all  of  the  great,  unknown,  mysterious  world  lay 
on  beyond.  It  was  a  wild  figure  that  this  gaunt  and 
haggard  young  man  presented  as,  hesitant,  he  stood 
gazing  out  at  the  habitations  in  which,  near  at  hand 
to  which,  beyond  which,  must  lie  the  answers  to  the 
questions  of  his  soul.  He  saw  not  the  town  where  the 
rafts  landed.  In  his  mind  still  lived  the  vision  of  yon 
other  city  on  the  hill. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

MARCIA   HADDON,  AND  THE  MERRY  WIFE  OF  WINDSOR 

THE  single  hotel  of  Windsor  was  a  raw  and 
rambling  structure,  for  the  most  part  fre- 
quented *i>y  raftsmen  and  mill  hands.  Joslin 
knew  the  proprietor,  commonly  known  as  Old  Man 
Bent.  That  worthy  stood  quizzically  regarding  the 
young  man,  as  the  latter  accosted  him,  and  explained 
his  almost  penniless  plight. 

"Ye're  plumb  wore  out,  an*  I  can  see  it,"  said  he. 
"Go  in  an*  go  to  bed,  atter  ye've  had  a  squar'  meal, 
an*  don't  say  nothin'  about  pay  ontel  times  is  better 
fer  ye.  Hit's  many  a  dollar  ye've  paid  to  me,  raftin' 
times." 

Without  further  word,  Joslin  stepped  into  the  din- 
ing room,  and  ate  his  first  real  meal  for  more  than  a 
week — ate  ravenously,  like  any  animal;  and  all  that 
night  he  slept  in  a  stupor  of  exhaustion. 

When  morning  came  once  more  he  found  his  host. 
"I've  got  to  git  work,"  said  he.  "I  kain't  live  here 
withouten  I  go  to  work  right  away.    Ye  know  that." 

Old  Man  Bent  looked  at  him  with  pursed  lips.  'Til 
tell  ye  what  I'd  do.     Ye  go  down  to  Jones'  brick  yard 

72 


MARCIA  HADDON 

an'  see  if  he'll  give  ye  something  to  do  fer  a  little 
while,  ontel  ye  kin  turn  yoreself  somehow." 

The  Windsor  brick  yard  was  run  by  a  man  by  the 
name  of  Jones,  who  himself  was  not  above  driving  a 
canny  bargain,  as  he  noted  the  stalwart  figure  of  this 
applicant. 

"I  could  put  ye  to  work  carryin'  the  molds  from 
the  mixer  out  to  the  dryin'  yard,"  said  he.  "Sixty 
cents  a  day  ain't  much,  but  I  kin  git  plenty  of  men  at 
that.  They  mostly  work  barefoot,  anyways."  He 
glanced  down  at  Joslin's  shoeless  feet,  worn  with  the 
hard  going. 

So  this  was  David  Joslin's  first  encounter  with  the 
great  outside  world — for  so  even  this  village  might  be 
termed.  Without  murmur  he  went  to  work — twelve 
hours  a  day,  with  a  back-breaking  load  each  trip,  car- 
rying the  wet  clay  of  the  molded  bricks.  The  reflex  of 
the  wound  in  his  head  gave  him  a  continuous  head- 
ache. He  still  was  weak.  But  he  worked  that  day  and 
the  next.  Then  once  more  he  went  to  his  land- 
lord. 

"I  kain't  nohow  make  it  even,"  said  he.  "I  don't 
fed  right  payin'  ye  only  fifteen  cents  a  day,  when  I 
know  ye  charge  everybody  else  a  dollar.  I  been  eat- 
ing only  two  meals  here  now,  trying  to  make  it  easier 
for  ye." 

Old  Man  Bent  understood  the  stern  quality  of  the 
mountain  character  well  enough,  and  accepted,  at  its 

73 


THE  WAY  OUT 

face  value,  the  rugged  independence  of  the  man  before 
him. 

'Til  tell  ye  what  I'd  do  if  I  was  in  yore  place, 
Dave,"  said  he.  "I'd  go  over  to  the  Widow  Dunham's 
place.  She  ain't  got  no  man  there  now  to  hep  her 
aroun',  an'  her  regular  price  for  board  is  only  three- 
fifty  a  week.  Maybe  ye  could  manage  to  git  a  place 
to  sleep  an'  three  squar'  meals  a  day." 

After  his  fashion,  silent,  Joslin  nodded,  and  forth- 
with went  over  to  the  boarding  house  of  the  Widow 
Dunham,  a  few  streets  distant  from  the  hotel.  He 
placed  before  that  dame  a  fair  statement  of  his  own 
case,  explaining  that  sixty  cents  a  day  was  all  he  was 
earning,  that  he  was  very,  very  hungry,  but  that  he 
could  perhaps  do  with  two  meals  a  day.  The  widow 
smilingly  estimated  the  tall  young  man  before  her, 
reviving  a  somewhat  ancient  dimple  as  she  did  so. 

"Men  is  mostly  troublesome,"  said  she.  "I've  mar- 
ried two  of  'em  in  my  time.  The  first  one  was  kilt  out 
in  the  hills,  and  the  second  one  was  so  triflin'  he  went 
out  into  the  Blue  Grass,  an'  I  never  did  hear  from  him 
no  more.  I  orter  have  some  sort  of  man  around  the 
place  to  fetch  in  the  water  an'  git  me  some  wood  now 
an'  then.  Ye  come  in  and  take  keer  of  them  chores 
like,  an'  pay  me  fifty  cents  a  day,  an'  we'll  call  it 
even. 

"Ye'd  orter  have  a  pair  of  shoes,  by  right,"  added 
she,  "an'  maybe  a  coat.    Sometimes  I  have  quality  come 

74 


MARCIA  HADDON 

here  to  my  place — I'm  expectin'  some  any  time  now 
from  outside.  Mr.  James  B.  Haddon  of  New  York, 
him  an'  his  wife  is  comin'  in,  he  writ  me.  Natural, 
if  I  have  folks  like  them  around  ye'd  orter  have  a 
pair  of  shoes  an'  a  good  coat,  anyways  of  nights/' 

She  stepped  back  into  her  own  well-ordered  domi- 
cile, and  presently  emerged  with  a  pair  of  shoes,  not 
much  worn.  To  these  she  added  a  coat,  which,  beyond 
question,  never  had  seen  fabrication  in  this  part  of  the 
world. 

"Here's  something  that  Mr.  Haddon  lef  here,  last 
time  he  was  in.  He  goes  back  into  the  hills,  or  least- 
ways he  intended  to  if  he  ever  got  started  to  it,  be- 
cause he's  the  Company  man.  He  threw  them  things 
away,  so  I  reckon  ye'll  be  welcome  to  'em." 

Joslin  took  these  articles  and  looked  them  over.  To 
put  on  another  man's  clothing  was  to  him  the  hardest 
trial  of  all  his  life.  Proud  as  the  proudest  of  aristo- 
crats, it  cut  him  to  the  core  to  use  these  things  thus 
offered.  Concluding  that  it  was  his  duty,  he  accepted 
it  with  the  other  punishments  which  life  was  offering 
him. 

"Thank  ye,  ma'am,"  said  he.  "They'll  come  right 
handy,  I'm  sure."    He  did  not  smile  as  he  spoke. 

As  for  the  Widow  Dunham,  she  herself  did  smile, 
as  he  went  out  the  gate.  "Hit'll  be  right  good  to  have 
a  man  around  the  house  onct  more,"  said  she  to  her- 
self. 

75 


THE  WAY  OUT 

This  was  of  a  morning.  As  dusk  fell,  Joslin  ap- 
peared once  more  at  the  door  of  his  new  home.  He 
was  not  left  long  idle. 

"I'll  tell  ye,  Mister,"  said  the  widow,  "I  ain't  axin 
no  questions  about  how  ye  come  here — I'm  mountain 
myself,  an*  I  kin  keep  my  mouth  shet.  If  ye'll  fetch 
me  some  worter  from  the  well  yander,  an*  go  down  to 
the  river  an*  git  me  some  slabs  fer  the  fire,  an*  saw  'em 
up,  I'll  be  obleeged  to  ye.  Then  ye'll  have  yore  supper. 
How  ye  beginnin'  to  feel  now?"  She  turned  her 
glance  to  the  wound  in  the  back  of  Joslin's  head. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  accepted  the  pail  which 
she  handed  him,  and  presently  brought  in  the  water. 
He  never  in  his  life  had  taken  orders  from  a  man,  far 
less  from  a  woman,  and  no  duties  could  have  been 
harder  for  him  than  these  menial  ones  of  the  house- 
hold. 

About  the  second  portion  of  his  errand,  Joslin  went 
to  the  slab  pile,  which  lay  above  the  saw  mill  near  the 
boat  landing,  which  itself  was  about  a  half  a  mile 
above  the  last  of  the  locks  of  the  Kentucky  River.  As 
he  rose,  having  gadiered  his  armful  of  bits  of  sound 
pieces  for  firewood,  he  heard  the  chug  of  a  power 
boat,  so  unusual  a  thing  in  that  part  of  the  world  that 
for  a  time  he  stood  motionless,  looking  at  the  craft  as 
it  approached.  It  was  a  river  skiff,  driven  by  an  out- 
board motor,  the  latter  operated  by  a  stranger,  per- 
haps a  hand  from  some  garage  in  a  downstream  town. 

76 


MARCIA  HADDON 

The  other  occupants  of  the  craft  might  at  a  glance 
be  seen  to  be  "furrin,"  as  the  local  phrase  would  go. 
A  stout,  middle-aged  man,  florid  of  face,  exceedingly 
well  clad,  immaculate  as  to  collar,  cuffs  and  shirt 
bosom,  sat  in  the  bow,  looking  anxiously  ahead.  Mid- 
ships was  a  yet  more  extraordinary  figure  for  that  lo- 
cality— a  young  woman,  perhaps  twenty-four  or 
twenty-five  years  of  age,  nicely  turned  out  in  tailor- 
made  traveling  suit,  and  wearing  gloves,  apparel  un- 
heard of  for  a  woman  in  the  mountains.  Of  extremely 
beautiful  face  was  she,  with  large,  somber  gray  eyes, 
defined  strongly  by  the  dark  brows  above  them,  and  a 
mouth  of  exceeding  sweetness,  which  softened  the 
grave  repose  of  her  features.  Withal,  a  figure  of  strik- 
ing comeliness  and  grace  for  any  surroundings,  she 
was  a  miracle,  an  apparition,  here  in  this  rude  hill 
town.  Joslin  had  never  seen  her  like  nor  dreamed  it 
She  was  a  creature  of  another  world. 

It  bid  fair  to  be  a  clumsy  landing  on  the  part  of  the 
steersman,  who  seemed  none  too  well  accustomed  to 
his  task.  "Damn  it!  Look  out!"  irritably  called  the 
man  in  the  bow.  "You'll  have  us  over  yet.  Lend  a 
hand  there,  can't  you?" 

His  last  remark  was  addressed  to  Joslin,  who  with- 
out noting  the  imperative  nature  of  the  words,  at  once 
dropped  his  armful  of  slabs,  and  hurried  to  the  edge 
of  the  wharf,  steadying  the  bow  of  the  boat  as  it  came 
in.     He  made  fast  the  painter  at  a  projecting  bit  of 

77 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  wharf  floor,  and  went  so  far  as  to  steady  the 
stranger  by  the  arm,  as  he  clumsily  stepped  out  from 
the  boat.  The  latter  himself  gave  a  hand  to  the  other 
passenger. 

"Well,  here  we  are,  Marcia,"  said  he ;  "end  of  the 
world,  anyway  as  far  as  I've  been  myself  before.  So 
we're  even  at  that,  anyhow." 

"Well,  stranger,"  said  he,  turning  once  more  to  Jos- 
lin,  "who  are  you?" 

Joslin  knew  that  he  was  meeting  none  other  than 
the  "quality  folks,"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Haddon  of  New 
York — the  man  whose  coat  and  shoes  he  was  at  that 
time  wearing.  But  with  his  genius  at  reticence,  he 
made  no  comment. 

"I  jest  come  down  from  the  Widow  Dunham's  to 
git  a  little  firewood,"  said  he.  "Kin  I  hep  ye  up  with 
any  of  yore  things,  ma'am?" 

The  strangely  beautiful  young  woman  stood  looking 
at  him  gravely  and  unsmilingly,  yet  kindly.  Instinc- 
tively, he  recognized  the  soul  of  a  real  gentle- 
woman. 

"Thank  you,"  said  she  to  him  now.  "There  are 
some  things  there" — she  hesitated,  as  she  turned  to- 
ward the  boat. 

"That's  all  right,  ma'am.  I'll  fetch  up  a  bunch  of 
'em  when  I  come." 

So  he  turned  to  these  additional  duties,  so  foreign 
to  his  life  and  taste ;  but  suddenly  it  seemed  to  him  that 

78 


MARCIA  HADDON 

just  in  return  for  that  gaze  of  hers,  not  critical,  not 
appraising  him  as  some  wild  creature,  not  twitting  him 
or  degrading  him,  he  would  be  willing  to  do  almost 
anything  in  the  world. 

The  newcomers  were  welcomed  most  effusively  by 
the  Widow  Dunham  herself,  who  escorted  them  into 
the  best  room  of  the  house,  and  dusted  off  all  the  chairs 
with  her  apron,  talking  meanwhile  volubly,  and  as- 
suring them  of  her  great  delight  at  seeing  them. 

"Ye'll  like  it  here,  Ma'am,  onct  ye  git  used  to  it. 
I  know  yore  husband  right  well — he  was  here  last 
year.    Air  ye  going  back  into  the  hills  with  him  ?" 

"I  think  we  are  not  quite  sure  about  that  yet,"  re- 
plied Mrs.  Haddon.  "It's  very  pleasant  here,  and  I'm 
very  tired.  Do  you  suppose,  Jim,"  said  she,  turning 
to  her  husband,  "we  could  rest  here  for  a  while  ?  It's 
very  beautiful  here,  and  I  feel  I'm  going  to  be  com- 
fortable." 

"That's  how  we  try  to  make  everybody  feel,"  said 
the  Widow  Dunham.  As  she  spoke  to  the  woman,  her 
eyes  were  upon  the  man.  She  was  what  was  some- 
times termed  by  her  neighbors  a  marrying  woman,  and 
all  men,  married  or  single,  she  estimated  with  a  keen 
eye  and  one  experienced. 

Haddon  laughed  a  gusty  laugh.  "We're  fifty  miles 
short  of  the  real  Cumberlands  here,  Marcia.  Our 
property  runs  from  thirty  to  fifty  or  even  sixty  miles 
back  in.    To  tell  the  truth,  I  haven't  seen  any  of  our 

79 


THE  WAY  OUT 

lands,  although  we've  got  more  tha  H  million  invested 
in  here." 

"There's  a  power  of  land  been  bought — timber  an* 
coal  rights — for  the  last  twenty  year,"  assented  the 
Widow  Dunham.  "Now  they  do  tell  me  that  they're 
a-findin'  oil  on  some  of  that  land  up  in  yander.  No 
tellin'  what'll  happen.  There's  even  talk  maybe  there'll 
be  a  railroad  up  Hell-fer-Sartin  one  of  these  days  afore 
long." 

"Who  told  you  about  these  things?"  inquired  the 
newcomer  with  a  certain  asperity.  "Don't  let  it  get 
out — don't  talk  about  anything.  By  the  way,  I've  got 
to  get  some  sort  of  guide — some  man  who  knows  that 
country,  and  will  take  me  in.     Know  of  anybody?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Mr.  Haddon,"  replied  the 
widow  ruminatingly,  "who  ye  could  git  to  take  ye 
in.  There's  a  young  man  I  got  around  the  house — 
he  just  come  out." 

"You  don't  mean  the  chap  that  was  down  at  the 
boat-landing,  do  you?     He's  out  in  the  yard  now." 

The  Widow  Dunham  nodded  contemplatively. 
"Yes.  His  name's  David  Joslin.  Folks  here  knows 
the  Joslins.  He's  a  mounting  man — borned  an'  bred 
up  in  there,  fifty  mile  or  so.  He's  one  of  the  best 
raft  steersmen  on  this  river — been  right  wild  in  his 
time,  but  he  ain't  a-skeered  of  nothin'.  That's  the 
name  he's  got  in  these  mountings.  Maybe  ye'd  better 
ax  him.    He's  a-workin'  down  to  the  brick  yard  now, 

80 


MARCIA  HADDON 

an*  tell  I  give  him  yore  old  coat  an'  shoes  he  didn't 
have  a  stitch  of  clothes  to  his  name,  so  to  speak.  He 
orter  be  willin'  to  go  to  hell  for  a  dollar  a  day,  an*  I 
reckon  he  would." 

"Well,  I  guess  it'll  be  a  hell  of  a  trip  up  in  there," 
said  Haddon  in  reply.    "What  do  you  think,  Marcia?" 

But  Marcia  Haddon  neither  then  nor  at  any  later 
time,  while  partaking  of  the  rude  fare  of  the  place, 
made  any  comment  or  expressed  any  discontent. 

When  they  had  finished  their  evening  meal,  Haddor. 
led  his  wife  out  to  the  scanty  gallery  of  the  Widow 
Dunham's  home,  which,  fenced  off  only  by  a  broken 
paling  against  the  street,  looked  out  toward  the  western 
prospect  of  the  hills.  It  was  starlight  now;  the  last 
glow  of  the  sinking  sun  had  disappeared.  Here  and 
there  the  slow  sounds  of  the  village  life,  now  about 
to  adjust  itself  to  sleep,  came  to  their  ears.  The  fra- 
grance of  Haddon's  fine  cigar  hung  heavy  in  the  air. 
They  sat  in  silence.  Haddon  himself  spoke  more  often 
to  others  than  to  his  wife,  so  it  would  appear,  and  as 
for  her,  she  was  reticent  by  instinct.  Her  hands  folded 
in  her  lap,  she  sat  without  comment,  looking  out  to- 
ward the  shadowy  outline  of  the  mountains  which 
crowded  down  to  the  river. 

At  length  Haddon  rose  and  stepped  back  into  the 
house,  where  he  found  the  Widow  Dunham  standing 
in  the  hall  in  converse  with  the  tall  young  mountaineer. 

"Now,  now,  Anw,"  said  he,  advancing  boldly,  and 
81 


THE  WAY  OUT 

chucking  the  comely  dame  under  the  chin,  "no  visit- 
ing with  anybody  elr.c  ~»ut  me,  you  understand — you 
haven't  forgotten  your  old  friend,  have  you  ?" 

Joslin  stepped  back,  somewhat  astounded  at  this 
familiarity  on  the  part  of  the  stranger,  but  the  latter 
only  laughed  in  his  face. 

"Come  along,  young  man,"  said  he.  "Come  out  on 
the  porch.    I  want  to  talk  to  vou  for  a  while." 

Joslin  silently  followed  him  out,  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  rail  of  the  gallery,  as  Haddon  seated  him- 
self and  began  to  explain  what  he  had  in  his  mind. 

"See  here,  young  man,"  said  he.  "They  tell  me 
you're  from  back  in  these  mountains." 

"I  was  born  thar,"  said  Joslin  quietly. 

"How'd  you  happen  to  come  out  here?"  demanded 
the  newcomer. 

"I  don't  reckon  it's  ary  man's  business  but  my  own," 
replied  Joslin  calmly. 

"Well,  you're  going  back  in,  aren't  you,  after  a 
while?" 

"I  hadn't  planned  ter,"  said  the  young  man.  "I 
come  out  because  I  wanted  ter.  I'm  a-goin'  on  Outside 
because  I  think  I'd  orter.  I've  got  to  work.  What  I 
want  is  a  chancet." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  chance  for  you." 

"How  do  ye  mean,  stranger?" 

"Near  as  I  can  tell,  you're  the  very  man  I'm  look- 
ing for.     I'm  the  manager  and  vice-president  of  the 

82 


MARC1A  HADDON 

land  company  that's  been  buying  stuff  up  in  here  for 
the  last  twenty  years.  We've  got  big  holdings  up  in 
there — on  the  Laurel  and  Newfound,  and  the  Rattle- 
snake and  Buffalo,  and  Big  Creek  and  Hell-fer-Sar- 
tin — we've  got  timber  or  coal  or  both  located  all 
through  there.  Now,  listen — I'm  in  here  now  because 
there's  talk  of  oil  being  found  in  there.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  that?" 

"They  said  they  found  some  along  some  of  the 
creeks  not  fur  from  whar  I  lived  at." 

"Have  you  ^ver  heard  anything  about  the  rail- 
road?" 

"Yes,  I  was  huntin'  on  Hell-fer-Sartin  not  more'n 
two  months  ago,  an'  I  seen  the  stakes.  There  hain't 
no  other  way  they  kin  git  through  but  only  jest  that 
one." 

"What  is  there  in  the  way  of  moonshining  going  on 
in  there?  Any  danger  for  an  outsider  to  go  in 
there?" 

"I  don't  know  nothin'  at  all  about  that,"  said  David 
Joslin.     "If  I  did  I  wouldn't  tell  ye." 

Haddon  sat  frowning  in  silence  for  quite  a  while. 
"You're  a  funny  lot,  you  mountain  people,"  said  he. 
"It's  hard  to  do  business  with  you." 

"Some  ways  it  mought  be  hard  with  me,"  replied 
Joslin. 

"Well,  don't  you  need  the  money  that  I  could  pay 
you?" 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"There's  nobody  in  the  world  needs  money  more'n 
I  do.     But  I  tolt  ye  I  was  headed  the  other  way." 

"Won't  you  go  back  in  if  I  pay  you  the  right 
wages  ?" 

"No,  I'm  headed  the  other  way." 

"Well,  now,  listen,"  said  Haddon  irritably.  "I  need 
some  native  that  knows  those  damned  people.  They 
tell  me  there's  no  such  thing  as  roads,  and  you  have  to 
ride  horseback  or  muleback  wherever  you  want  to  go." 

"That's  so,"  replied  the  mountain  man.  "That's 
the  onliest  way.  There  hain't  no  sich  thing  as  towns. 
Ye'd  have  to  stop  at  the  cabins.  Ary  man's  welcome  in 
there  if  they  think  he's  all  right,  an'  hain't  a-lookin' 
fer  nothin'  er  nobody." 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  Haddon,  nodding  understandingly. 
"Some  trouble  in  there,  eh?  Well,  I  suppose  you've 
seen  your  share  of  it."  He  grinned,  as  he  looked  at 
Joslin's  head,  where  he  had  already  noted  the  wound 
still  unhealed. 

"We  don't  say  nothin'  about  sich  matters  in  these 
hills,  stranger,"  said  Joslin  quietly.  "I'm  a-tellin'  ye 
if  I  went  in  thai  with  ye,  ye'd  be  all  right.  But  I 
hain't  a-goin'.    Ye  kain't  noways  hire  me." 

"You're  pretty  danged  independent,"  rejoined  Had- 
don testily.  "The  woman  here  just  told  me  that  you're 
wearing  my  coat  and  my  shoes  right  now.  You  must 
be  hard  up  against  it.  Probably  you  were  run  out 
of  these  hills,  and  that's  why  you  want  to  get  outside. 

84 


MARCIA  HADDON 

And  now  I  offer  you  fair  pay — good  pay,  in  fact — five 
dollars  a  day,  or  ten — just  to  go  in  and  show  me  the 
timber  and  coal  in  that  country,  which  you  don't  own 
but  we  own — and  you  say  you  won't  go.  Is  that  the 
way  you  treat  a  stranger?" 

"Hit  mought  be  the  way  to  treat  some  strangers.  As 
fer  yore  shoes  an'  coat,  ye  needn't  say  I'm  a-wearin* 
'em  no  longer."  And  so,  deliberately,  Joslin  removed 
both  the  shoes  and  the  coat,  and  stood  coatless  and 
barefooted,  leaning  against  the  gallery  rail.  He  felt 
with  a  certain  mortification  the  straight  gaze  of  the 
young  woman  who  had  sat  listening  quietly.  She  spoke 
now. 

"Mr.  Joslin,"  said  she  in  the  low  and  even  tones 
usual  for  her  speaking  voice,  "I  think  you  need  those 
things.  I  quite  understand  how  you  feel  about  wear- 
ing them,  but  you  will  oblige  me  very  much  by  keep- 
ing them  until  you  are  able  to  earn  something  better." 
David  Joslin,  the  shame,  humiliation  and  hot  anger 
of  his  heart  struggling  for  mastery,  turned  to  her,  for 
the  moment  unable  to  speak.  Then,  silently  as  he  had 
removed  the  offending  articles,  he  replaced  them. 

"I  thank  ye,  Ma'am,"  said  he.  "I  reckon  ye  know 
better'n  I  do  what  I'd  orter  do." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  she,  turning  toward  him  in  the 
twilight  a  face  that  to  him  had  the  charm  of  an  angel's, 
"my  husband  wants  you  to  go  back  in  there  with  him. 
Why  is  it  impossible?" 

85 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Hit's  impossible,  Ma'am,  because  when  I  make  up 
my  mind  to  a  thing  it's  impossible  to  change  it." 

She  sat  looking  at  him  curiously.  Never  in  all 
her  life  had  she  seen  a  personality  more  powerful  than 
that  of  this  half-wild  heathen  who  stood  before  her. 
The  feel  of  the  iron  of  his  soul  came  upon  her  with 
strange  effect. 

"I'll  not  ask  you  why  you're  going  outside,"  said 
she,  after  a  moment. 

"Jest  because  ye  don't  ax  me,  I'll  tell  ye,"  said 
Joslin  suddenly.  "I'm  a-goin'  outside  to  git  a  educa- 
tion." 

"An  education?  There  aren't  many  schools  back 
in  there?" 

"Thar  hain't  no  schools  at  all,  Ma'am.  My  daddy 
war  a  preacher  afore  he  died.  I  kain't  read  in  no 
book  to  amount  to  nothin'.  I  kain't  hardly  write  my 
own  name.  I'm  a-goin'  outside  to  git  a  education, 
because  I'm  a-goin'  to  build  a  college,  Ma'am." 

"A  college!" 

"Yes,  Ma'am.  I've  got  to  do  it.  My  people  have 
been  a-killin'  each  other  in  thar  fer  a  hundred  years. 
They  kain't  read,  they  kain't  write,  they  kain't  think. 
They  hain't  amountin'  to  nothin'  whatever  in  the 
world.  They're  a  great  people,  Ma'am.  They're  worth 
savin*.  Well,  it  kind  of  come  to  me,  in  a  sort  of  callin', 
that  I'd  orter  save  them.  So,  like  I  said,  I'm  a-goin' 
Outside  to  git  me  a  education,  soon  as  I  kin." 

86 


MARCIA  HADDON 

The  situation  had  suddenly  become  extraordinary. 
They  waited  for  the  mountaineer  to  go  on,  as  presently 
he  did. 

"I've  nuwer  been  further  down  the  river  than  a 
couple  of  locks  below.  I've  rafted  here  sence  I  was 
fourteen  year  old,  but  beyant  the  aidge  of  the  hills  I 
don't  know  nothin'  of  the  world.  Kin  ye  tell  me  whar 
I  kin  git  my  education  ?  I  don't  reckon  it'll  take  long 
— us  mounting  people  larn  right  fast,  Ma'am,  when 
we  git  a  chancet." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  went  on,  anxiously:  "I'd 
do  arything  in  the  world  to  obleege  ye,  Ma'am — I'd 
go  back  in  thar  right  now  with  ye  if  I  had  time.  But 
ye  see,  I'm  twenty-eight  year  old,  an'  I  hain't  got  no 
time  to  lose." 

Marcia  Haddon  sat  in  silence  for  a  time  and  looked 
at  her  husband,  who,  moody  and  irritated,  was  flicking 
at  the  end  of  his  cigar. 

"This  is  rather  an  extraordinary  thing,  Jim,"  said 
she.  "Do  you  suppose — is  there  any  way  we  could 
help  this  man?" 

"He  doesn't  seem  any  too  willing  to  help  us,"  replied 
Haddon  grimly. 

"I  hain't  said  that,  Mister,"  said  Joslin  evenly.  "I'd 
do  arything  in  the  world  I  could  fer  ye  people  if  it 
was  right." 

Haddon  gave  a  snort  of  laughter.  "You  people  in 
here  haven't  got  a  thing  in  the  world — we  bring  in  all 

87 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  money  you'll  ever  see.  You've  got  your  resources 
to  sell,  and  you  aren't  willing  to  sell  them.  Well, 
what  do  we  owe  you?" 

"I  don't  know  as  ye  owe  us  anything,"  said  David 
Joslin,  the  slow  color  rising  to  his  face.  "As  fer  me, 
1  don't  allow  to  owe  ary  man  arything  very  long.  I 
reckon  ye  understand  that,  Ma'am." 

He  turned  now  to  the  woman,  who  nodded.  He 
knew  that  she  did  understand. 

"Is  there  anybody  else  that  you  can  get  to  take  us 
in  there?"  demanded  Haddon  impatiently.  "Damn  it 
all,  I've  almost  a  notion  to  turn  around  and  go  back 
again!  For  half  a  cent  I'd  advise  the  boys  to  charge 
off  the  whole  damn  thing  to  profit  and  loss.  I'm  sore 
•—that's  what  I  am." 

The  low  voice  of  Marcia  Haddon  began  once  more, 
and  as  before  she  addressed  not  her  husband,  but  the 
young  mountain  man. 

"You  spoke  about  going  in  at  some  later  time,"  said 
she.  "You  interest  me.  My  husband  and  I  have  no 
children.  I'd  like  to  do  something — something  for 
those  children  back  there  in  the  hills." 

"Ma'am,"  said  David  Joslin,  his  voice  trembling, 
"if  ye  could  do  that  God  A'mighty  shore  would  nuwer 
fergit  it,  not  whiles  He  had  a  universe  to  run.  If  ye 
could  do  that — I'd  do  arything  in  the  world  fer 
ye." 

"Well,  now,  come,"  said  Haddon,  still  argumenta- 

88 


MARCIA  HADDON 

tively.    "You  say  you  don't  know  anyone  else  that  you 
can  get  to  take  me  in  there  ?" 

"I  don't,  sir.  The  Gannts  an*  the  Joslins  is  both 
a-ridin'  now.  Thar's  been  men  killed,  an*  goin'  to  be 
more  killed.  If  ary  stranger  went  in  thar,  he'd  be 
liable  nuvver  to  come  out  at  all." 

"Well,"  rejoined  Haddon,  "I  don't  think  my  salary 
will  warrant  my  going  in  there  and  getting  shot  up  by 
some  long-legged  son-of-a-gun  toting  a  squirrel  rifle. 
That  doesn't  appeal  to  me  any  whatever.  Listen, 
man !"  Haddon  sat  up  suddenly  in  his  chair  as  an  idea 
flashed  upon  his  keen  business  brain.  "Listen  now," 
and  he  extended  an  arresting  forefinger.  "I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do  with  you.  You  know  that  country  and 
I  don't.  I'll  pay  you  ten  dollars  a  day  and  all  your 
expenses  to  New  York  if  you'll  go  back  with  me.  I 
want  you  to  address  a  meeting  of  my  company  and 
some  other  companies  that  are  in  the  business.  That'll 
do  just  as  well,  if  you  tell  a  good  straight  story,  as  if 
I  went  in  there  myself.  You  do  know  the  country, 
don't  you?" 

"I  know  it  day  an*  night,  through  an*  through.  I 
know  every  coal  seam  in  them  hills.  I  know  most 
every  old-time  poplar  tree  an'  big  white  oak  from 
Hell-fer-Sartin  to  the  mouth  of  Rattlesnake,  an'  from 
Big  Creek  to  the  Main  Forks.  I  don't  know  nothin' 
else." 

ow  then — now  then — now  then,"  resumed  Had- 
89 


THE  WAY  OUT 

don  excitedly — "that's  the  answer!  That  certainly  is 
the  answer  to  the  whole  thing.  Now,  you  come  back 
with  us — I'll  get  you  some  clothes,  and  that  sort  of 
thing,  of  course,  I'll  pay  your  railroad  fare  and  ex- 
penses, and  ten  dollars  a  day,  and  I'll  keep  you  in  New 
York  until  this  business  is  over.  In  return  for  that, 
all  I  want  you  to  do  is  to  tell  my  men  what  you  know 
about  that  country — how  many  trees  there  are  to  an 
acre  on  that  Hell-fer-Sartin  tract — where  the  oil  crop- 
pings  are,  so  far  as  you  know — where  the  railroad's 
got  to  come.    Can  you  show  it  on  a  map  ?" 

"I  don't  know  about  maps,  stranger,"  said  David 
Joslin,  "but  if  ye  could  tell  me  the  names  of  the  places 
on  the  maps,  like  rivers,  ye  know — ye  see,  I  kain't  read 
very  well,  not  yit." 

"Sure,  sure,  I'll  fix  that  all  right.  I'll  show  it  for 
you  just  like  a  book.    A  child  could  read  it." 

"I  kain't  read  no  beiter'n  a  child,  Mr.  Haddon,  but 
if  ye  kin  show  me  whar  the  creeks  is  marked  on  the 
map  I  kin  show  ye  whar  the  railroad  has  got  to  go. 
I  kin  put  my  finger  on  every  place  whar  oil  has  been 
found,  er  gas — ye  know,  thar's  places  whar  gas  has  1 
been  burnin'  fer  forty  year,  ever  sence  the  War,  an' 
thar  didn't  nobody  know  about  it." 

"There  doesn't  anyone  know  that  there's  a  contin- 
uance of  the  big  West  Virginia  anticline  right  through 
these  mountains,"  rejoined  Haddon  grimly.  "Oil? — 
There's  got  to  be  oil  in  here,  and  I  know  it.     Our 

90 


MARCIA  HADDON 

geologists  figured  that  all  out  before  you  ever  told  me 
there  had  been  oil  found  in  here.  Why,  man — I  can't 
afford  not  to  take  you  back  with  me.  And  you  can't 
afford  not  to  come/ 

"What  do  ye  think  of  this,  Ma'am?"  said  David 
Toslin,  turning  toward  the  quiet  young  woman.  "I 
reckon  ye  mought  be  ashamed  of  me  if  I  went  along 
with  ye."    He  flushed  dully. 

"No,  Mr.  Joslin,"  said  she,  quickly.  "You'll  learn. 
You  wouldn't  be  unhappy,  I  think.  I  want  you  to  feel 
that  we  want  to  help  you.  Let  my  husband  take  care 
of  the  business  part.  I'll  see  what  I  can  do  towarc' 
getting  you  a  chance  to  study.  If  money  is  good  for 
anything,  Jim,  it  ought  to  be  good  for  just  some  such 
thing  as  this." 

"Is  it  a  trade,  man?"  said  the  Northerner  suddenly. 

"I  believe  I'll  go  with  ye,  Ma'am,"  said  David  Jos- 
lin quietly  for  his  reply.    He  did  not  speak  to  the  man. 

It  was  a  trade !  When  Jimmy  Haddon  stepped  back 
once  more  into  the  house,  to  the  side  of  the  table  where 
the  flickering  oil  lamp  stood,  he  caught  the  Widow 
Dunham  gaily  about  the  shoulders,  chucked  her  under 
the  chin  once  more,  and  kissed  her  fair  on  the  lips.  It 
chanced  he  did  this  just  as  his  wife  came  into  the  hall, 
so  that  she  saw  the  whole  transaction.  She  made  no 
comment.  She  also  had  made  her  trade,  years  ago, 
when  she  married.  If  she  had  lost,  she  would  not  yet 
complain.    But  Joslin  saw  the  hot  flush  on  her  cheek. 

91 


CHAPTER  IX 


POLLY  PENDLETON 


WELL,  Marcia,  here  we  are,"  said  James 
Haddon,  as  at  last  their  long  railway  jour- 
ney drew  to  its  close  in  the  swift  sweep  of 
the  train  up  the  gates  of  the  great  city  by  the  sea. 
"Better  begin  to  round  up  your  wild  man — I  saw  him 
standing  in  the  vestibule  looking  out  of  the  window  as 
though  he  was  in  a  trance.  What  are  we  going  to  do 
with  him,  now  we've  got  him  ?" 

"We'll  take  him  with  us  to  our  home,  of  course,  Jim. 
He'd  be  lost  anywhere  else.  He  knows  no  more  than  a 
child." 

"Pretty  husky  child,  some  ways,"  said  Haddon. 
"Well,  all  right,  all  right !  I  suppose  you're  glad  he's 
different  from  me.  You  don't  seem  to  have  a  lot  of 
use  for  me  any  more,  some  way — you've  been  like  a 
>clam  ever  since  we  left  New  York,  and  you're  more 
like  a  clam  now  that  we're  getting  back.  There's  worse 
fellows  in  the  world  than  Jimmy  Haddon,  and  maybe 
you'll  live  to  see  it  yet.  I'll  show  you,  if  this  deal 
goes  through — and  it  will  if  your  wild  friend  makes 
good. 

92 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

"But  now  here  we  are  getting  into  the  tube — I'd 
better  catch  the  wild  man,  or  he  may  get  scared  and 
jump  off  the  train.  All  right — we'll  take  him  up 
home." 

The  rushing  whirl  of  the  city  received  them — the 
city,  a  place  occupied,  so  it  seemed  to  this  stranger, 
with  sad-faced  madmen  hurrying  here  and  yon  without 
purpose.  Mad — mad — hopelessly  mad — so  it  all 
seemed  to  David  Joslin  as,  himself  frightened  with 
the  noise,  the  clamorings,  the  uncertainty  of  it  all,  he 
finally  emerged  from  the  gates  of  the  railway  station 
and  stood  close  to  the  side  of  the  woman  who  now 
made  his  main  reliance  in  this  new  world  of  the  great 
Outside. 

A  deferential  man  in  livery  came  toward  them  and 
led  them  to  a  long,  shining  limousine  car  which  stood 
at  the  curb.  A  moment  later  they  were  whirling  away 
through  the  crowded  streets,  escaping  death  every 
instant,  so  it  seemed  to  the  newcomer,  by  the  miracle 
of  a  second's  fraction.  He  held  his  peace,  as  he  had 
now  for  five  days  in  a  new,  mad  world  of  which  he 
had  not  dreamed.  They  passed  on  out  through  the 
crowded  traffic  street  until  they  reached  paved  ways 
leading  to  the  north,  and  so,  after  a  long  and  steady 
flight  of  the  car,  drew  up  at  the  entrance  of  a  great 
apartment  building  on  the  river  drive. 

Joslin  followed  in.  He  never  in  his  life  before  had 
been  in  a  passenger  elevator.    He  felt  a  strange  sinking 

93 


THE   WAY  OUT 

at  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  caught  instinctively  at 
the  bars  of  the  gate.  He  was  still  less  at  ease  when 
they  led  him  into  the  silent  and  dim  apartments  where 
Haddon  and  his  wife  lived,  as  luxurious  as  any  of  the 
Riverside,  the  rent  of  which  each  month  was  more  than 
any  farm  in  all  the  Cumberlands  would  bring  in  a  year. 

But  Joslin  was  now  in  the  home  of  a  gentlewoman. 
Quietly  she  took  him  in  hand,  relieving  his  embarrass- 
ment, setting  him  at  his  ease,  showing  him  where  he 
might  live,  and  telling  him  kindly  what  might  be  ex- 
pected of  him.  He  looked  about  him  at  his  own  room 
with  awe.  These  furnishings  to  him  were  so  unbe- 
lievably luxurious  that  he  dared  not  sit  down  upon  a 
chair.  He  gazed  upon  the  bed,  with  its  yellow  coverlet 
of  silk,  with  but  one  resolve — he  would  sleep  upon 
the  floor,  but  never  venture  further — nor  did  he.  And 
when  presently  they  called  him  to  table  he  felt  his 
heart  sink  yet  further  in  these  strange  surroundings, 
so  that  he  could  not  eat.  He  had  accosted  as  "Mister" 
the  servant  who  went  to  his  room  with  him — he  saw 
the  same  man  now,  and  wondered  that  he  stood,  and 
did  not  eat  with  the  others — wondered  that  no  one 
noticed  him  nor  the  white-capped  maid  who  passed. 
Surely  it  was  all  a  strange,  mad  world. 

"Well,"  said  Haddon,  after  his  hurried  finishing  of 
his  own  meal,  "I've  got  to  get  down  to  the  little 
old  shop  right  away,  Marcia.  They'll  not  be  ex- 
pecting me,  of  course,  but  it's  a  good  piece  of  busi- 

94 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

that  I'm  back  when  I  am,  and  just  the  way  I  am." 

"I  presume  you'll  have  plenty  to  do,"  commented  his 
wife. 

"Listen!  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'm  going  to 
get  together  all  the  directors  of  the  Company,  and 
we'll  pull  off  a  little  dinner  at  the  Williston — in  the 
Gold  Room.  How'll  that  do,  my  Christian  friend?" 
said  he,  grinning  at  Joslin  as  he  stepped  to  the  hall 
table  and  picked  up  his  own  hat  and  gloves. 

"Of  course,  I  can't  do  that  right  away,"  he  con- 
tinued, turning  back,  his  stick  over  his  arm,  his  well- 
brushed  hat  now  on  his  head.  "Maybe  a  couple  of 
days.  I'll  be  busy.  Maybe  I'll  have  to  stay  down  at 
the  club  tonight,  Marcia,  I'll  check  up  about  dinner 
time." 

He  did  not  call  up  at  about  dinner  time,  nor  at  all 
until  past  noon  the  next  day,  when  he  explained  that 
he  had  been  crowded  at  the  office  and  unable  to  get 
his  own  apartments  by  phone — explanations  with  which 
his  wife  was  fairly  familiar. 

As  for  Joslin,  he  passed  the  two  days  in  what  seemec 
to  him  a  continual  kaleidoscope  of  madhouse  change. 
Now  in  charge  of  one  of  the  chauffeurs,  sometimes  in 
the  more  gracious  company  of  his  hostess,  he  spun  up 
and  down  the  streets  of  the  great  city,  looking  at  the 
untold  thousands  of  its  inhabitants,  wondering  at  its 
stately  buildings,  wondering  at  the  beauty  of  its  parks, 
so  like  and  yet  so  unlike  the  woods  he  had  always 

95 


THE   WAY   OUT 

known.  In  the  evening,  in  his  own  room,  he  read 
steadily,  as  best  he  might,  spelling  out  the  complex, 
stern  theology  of  old  John  Calvin.  Now  and  again  he 
raised  his  eyes  and  wondered  what  Calvin  would  have 
done  had  he  been  here. 

They  brought  to  him  now  certain  other  clothing 
of  Jimmy  Haddon's,  a  trifle  short,  a  trifle  large,  but 
serving  better  than  anything  he  yet  had  had.  He  was 
not  happy  in  all  this — no  man  ever  was  more  unhappy 
in  all  his  life  than  David  Joslin  now.  Moreover, 
there  came  to  his  heart,  every  moment  of  the  day  and 
night,  the  most  exquisite  of  pain — nostalgia — the 
actual  illness  of  homesickness.  He  longed  unspeak- 
ably for  the  sight  of  the  mountains,  for  the  smell  of 
the  wood-smoke  of  the  fires,  the  look  of  the  stars  at 
night,  the  pink  of  the  dawn  when  morning  came.  Life 
here  was  a  fearsome  thing,  and  long  and  hard  seemed 
the  unknown  road  that  lay  before  him. 

Haddon  came  home  after  his  second  night  away  and 
announced  that  all  was  in  readiness  for  the  great  ban- 
quet of  the  men  whom  he  represented  in  his  business 
affiliations. 

"I'm  going  to  give  you  your  first  chance  in  public 
speaking  now,  Joslin/'  said  he.  "Believe  me,  you'll 
have  an  attentive  audience  for  once,  if  you  never  do 
again — weren't  you  talking  of  being  a  preacher,  or 
something?  Talk  business,  son,  straight  business — 
that's  all  we  want  to  hear.     If  you  make  good,  you'll 

96 


POLLY  PENDLETON 

have  the  time  of  your  life.  Help  us,  and  we'll  help 
you — see  ? 

"How  about  clothes?"  He  turned  questioningly  to 
his  wife,  who  was  in  the  room  at  the  time.  "Of  course 
it's  evening  dress — is  there  a  spare  suit  of  mine  around 
anywhere?" 

Marcia  Haddon  looked  at  the  two  for  a  moment. 
"Perhaps  Mr.  Joslin  would  not  prefer  it,"  said  she. 

Joslin  shook  his  head.  "No,"  said  he.  "I  hain't 
a-goin'  to  change  from  these  clothes  I've  got  on  now. 
I'm  used  to  'em  a  little." 

Haddon's  companion,  therefore — and  Haddon  rather 
prided  himself  on  his  invariably  well-groomed  appear- 
ance— presented  something  of  a  noticeable  turn-out 
when  they  entered  the  lobby  of  the  great  hotel  where 
the  banquet  was  to  be,  but  he  did  not  notice  the  apolo- 
getic grimaces  Haddon  gave  in  response  to  certain 
lifted  eyebrows  of  his  friends  whom  he  met  here  and 
there. 

"Well,  come  along,  old  man,"  said  he  to  his  guest, 
at  length.  "We'll  leave  our  coats  and  hats  here,  and 
go  and  see  if  we  can  find  some  more  of  the  fellows." 

He  was  not  at  a  loss  as  to  the  place  of  search.  The 
long  glazed  and  marbled  bar  of  the  Williston  at  that 
time  was  thronged  with  hundreds,  much  athirst.  Be- 
hind the  vast  reaches  of  mahogany  stood  many  bar- 
tenders, all  busy.  Men  in  evening  dress,  with  top  hats 
and  beautifully  fitting  evening  wear,  men  impeccable 

97 


THE   WAY   OUT 

in  gloves  and  glasses  and  fit  for  presentation  in  any 
city  of  the  world — stood  here,  laughing,  talking,  jest- 
ing, drinking.  One  after  another  all  these  now  ac- 
costed Haddon,  some  with  a  sly  word,  a  glance,  a  hint, 
a  jest — things  which  he  hushed  down  as  soon  as  might 
be,  for  he  knew  the  keen  suspicion  of  the  mountaineer. 

''Well,  what  are  you  going  to  have  to  drink?"  said 
he  to  Joslin  at  length,  edging  his  own  way  up  to  the 
bar.  "We've  got  to  lay  some  sort  of  a  foundation  for 
the  dinner,  you  know.  What  kind  of  cocktail  do  you 
want — Martini 5" 

"I  never  did  drink  nothin'  but  plain  corn  liquor/' 
said  Joslin.  "If  I  could  have  jest  a  leetle  of  that  now, 
maybe " 

"Nonsense!  Have  a  cocktail.  It's  too  early  for 
hard  liquor  yet.  Make  him  another,  John,"  and  he 
nodded  to  the  bartender. 

Joslin  raised  the  little  glass,  whose  contents  seemed, 
in  color  at  least,  not  unfamiliar  to  him  as  a  mountain 
man,  but  he  drank  no  more  than  half  of  the  contents, 
and  then  set  down  the  glass.  It  was  his  first  and  only 
cocktail.  He  made  no  comment  as  his  host  urged  him, 
but  moved  away  from  the  bar.  Haddon  himself  re- 
mained to  finish  two  or  three  more  of  the  insidious 
potions  before  he  himself  turned  and  with  the  others 
began  to  move  toward  the  quarters  set  apart  for  the 
banquet  party. 

By  this  time  the  crowd  was  much  like  the  usual 

98 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

male  banquet  crowd — a  trifle  flushed  of  face,  a  trifle 
garrulous  of  tongue,  each  in  his  own  heart  happy,  and 
each  in  his  own  belief  quite  witty  and  very  much 
aplomb.  They  were  seated  in  due  course  at  the  long 
tables  arranged  after  the  fashion  of  a  Maltese  cross. 
Haddon,  it  seemed,  was  to  preside.  He  placed  his 
guest  at  his  own  right,  in  the  place  of  honor. 

"Trust  little  old  Jimmy  to  pull  a  thing  off,"  said  one 
merchant  to  another.  "He  never  went  down  to  that 
country  for  nothing.  He's  got  the  goods  with  him, 
and  you  can  gamble  on  that.  He  told  me  himself  how 
he  caught  this  wild  mountain  man  and  brought  him  on 
to  talk  to  us  tonight.  He  knows  every  foot  of  the  land 
in  there,  and  he  can  cell  us  the  whole  works.  Coal — 
gas — oil — those  lands  of  ours  are  full  of  it!  Looks 
like  we  were  going  to  make  a  killing.  Trust  Jimmy. 
He's  one  grand  little  live  wire,  if  we've  got  one  in  our 
village." 

The  dinner  wore  on,  much  as  these  things  usually 
run — the  original  stage  of  hilarity  somewhat  modified 
under  the  sobering  influence  of  food.  It  was  all 
strange  to  Joslin,  who,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  scarcely 
had  one  plate  set  before  him  before  it  was  taken  away 
and  replaced  by  yet  another.    Few  noticed  what  he  did. 

Presently,  when  all  were  well  forward  with  coffee 
and  cigars,  Haddon  rapped  loudly  on  the  table  as  he 
rose.  A  change  came  over  the  entire  personnel  of 
the  assemblage.     Here  but  now  had  been  a  riotous 

99 


THE  WAY   OUT 

meeting  of  full-blooded  men,  young  men,  middle-aged 
men,  gray-haired  men,  bent  on  nothing  better  than 
drinking  and  eating.  But  now  anyone  who  glanced 
down  these  table*  would  have  seen  a  steady  keenness, 
a  fixity  of  purpose,  on  the  face  of  practically  every 
man  present.  They  were  hard-headed  American  busi- 
ness men  on  the  instant  now,  each  man  ready  for  the 
purpose  which  really  had  brought  him  here.  Money — 
the  pursuit  of  money — the  keen  zest  of  the  game  of 
business — that  was  the  real  intoxication  of  these  men, 
and  not  that  of  alcohol.  They  listened  now  in  perfect 
silence  to  what  their  representative  might  have  to  say. 

Haddon  told  them  briefly  something  of  his  late  trip 
into  the  Cumberlands,  told  why  it  had  been  ended  so 
abruptly  for  a  second  time,  admitted  that  he  had  never 
been  over  much  of  the  Company's  land  holdings,  in 
the  mountains,  and  explained  the  reasons  why  that  was 
a  difficult  thing.  He  showed  that  it  was  necessary  to 
have  a  guide  to  make  a  successful  exploration  of  the 
properties  in  that  country,  and  adverted  to  the  benefits 
of  direct  testimony  rather  than  hearsay,  explaining 
how  he  had  brought  this  mountaineer,  who  had  spent 
all  his  life  in  the  middle  of  the  Company's  properties, 
to  the  city  with  him  to  tell  them  his  own  first-hand 
story  of  the  land. 

A  large  map  hung  on  the  wall,  and  to  this  he  ad- 
verted from  time  to  time.  Joslin's  eyes  followed  him. 
Yes,  he  knew  these  streams — he  could  locate  this  or 

100 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

that  territory  familiar  to  himsei-f,  here  -on*  the  mm 
He  knew  on  the  ground  what  Haddon  pointed  out 
upon  the  map.  So  presently,  when  they  called  upon 
him  to  speak,  he  rose  with  no  great  diffidence  on  his 
own  part 

They  greeted  him  with  a  generous  round  of  ap- 
plause, which  startled  him,  for  he  had  never  heard 
anything  of  the  sort.  But  after  all  David  Joslin  was 
a  man  of  great  dignity  and  self-respect,  with  great 
powers  of  mind  as  well  as  of  body.  And  there  lurked 
somewhere  within  him,  as  in  so  many  of  these  strong 
characters  of  the  hills,  natural  instincts  of  the  orator. 

He  spoke  strongly,  simply,  powerfully,  with  no  at- 
tempt at  embellishment,  but  in  such  terms  as  left  no 
doubt  whatsoever  as  to  his  meaning.  After  a  time  he 
stepped  to  the  map,  and,  pointing  out  here  and  there, 
explained  as  nearly  as  he  himself  knew  the  nature  of 
the  Company's  holdings.  He  told  them  where  the  coal 
cropped  out  at  the  headwaters  of  this  or  that  creek,  told 
them  that  on  some  of  the  mountain  sides  three  veins 
of  coal  had  been  known  ever  since  he  could  remember, 
the  middle  vein  over  eight  feet  thick,  the  lower  four 
feet  thick,  and  that  nearest  to  the  mountain  top  almost 
as  deep.  He  explained  to  them  that  there  was  coal 
over  more  than  a  hundred  miles  of  that  country,  as 
he  knew,  and  told  them  how  nearly  everyone  mined 
his  own  coal  on  his  own  land,  and  did  not  trouble  to 
cut  wood  for  much  of  the  year. 

101 


THE   WAY  OUT 

:  hikes  of  oil,  Joslin  could  put  his 
finger  upon  the  map  where  every  one  of  these  dis- 
coveries had  been  made.  He  said  that  his  own  people 
cared  little  for  that,  for  they  had  long  grown  to  be- 
lieve there  was  no  way  for  them  to  get  out  into  the 
world.  He  explained  to  them  that  there  were  no 
roads  in  that  country,  that  logs  were  dragged  down 
the  mountain  side  by  cattle,  rolled  into  the  shallow 
streams  by  hand  labor,  and  left  to  the  chance  of  the 
infrequent  "tides."  He  told  them  that  in  many  of 
those  streams  there  were  logs  enough  to  touch  end 
to  end  from  one  end  of  the  creek  to  the  other — logs 
enough  bedded  in  the  sand  to  floor  the  creek  entirely 
for  half  its  lengtn — black  walnut  logs  two  and  a  half 
feet  through — white  oak  logs  three  and  a  half  feet 
in  diameter — and  poplar  four  and  a  half  feet.  Their 
eyes  glistened  as  he  went  on  telling  all  these  things 
naturally,  simply,  naively,  as  one  fully  acquainted 
with  them.  He  explained  to  them  the  ways  of  all 
these  methods  of  logging,  how  no  one  could  run  a 
saw  mill  in  that  region  with  profit,  how  no  raftsman 
ever  made  more  than  a  living  at  his  work,  hard  as  it 
was.  Then  he  told  them  how  he  himself  had  seen  the 
stakes  of  the  new  railroad  line  coming  across  the 
head  of  Hell-fer-Sartin  and  making  for  the  upper 
waters  of  Big  Creek,  and  passing  thence  on  to  the  older 
railway  lines. 

"When  the  railroad  comes,  gentle-men,"  said  he, 

102 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

"things  has  got  to  change  in  than  We've  been  alone 
— no  one  knows  much  about  our  lands.  Ye  come  in 
thar  twenty  years  ago,  when  no  one  cared  for  nothin'. 
Ye  bought  yore  land  fer  skercely  a  dollar  a  acre, 
most  of  it,  an'  thar's  trees  on  it  thar  that's  wuth  ten 
an'  twenty  dollars  fer  every  log  in  'em,  onct  ye  git 
'em  out,  an'  two,  three,  four  logs  to  the  tree.  The 
railroad  will  let  the  world  in,  an'  it'll  let  us  out.  I 
reckon  the  time  has  come  fer  that.  All  I  ask  ye  in 
turn  fer  what  I'm  a-tellin'  ye,  is  to  treat  my  people 
fair.  Give  them  a  fair  value  fer  what  they've  got. 
They're  pore,  they're  ignerint,  they're  blind.  I'm  as 
ignerint  as  the  wust  of  'em.  But  we're  squar'  with 
ye.     We  want  ye  to  be  squar'  with  us." 

A  blank  silence  greeted  this  last  remark.  Men 
looked  from  one  to  the  other.  Once  in  a  while  there 
might  have  been  a  cynical  smile  or  sneer  that  passed. 
After  he  had  spoken  for  an  hour,  perhaps  more  than 
an  hour,  and  had  answered  all  such  questions  as  they 
asked  him,  David  Joslin  sat  down.  A  voice  in  the  back 
part  of  the  room  arose. 

"What's  the  matter  vyith  Jimmy  Haddon?" 

A  vociferous  chorus  answered.  Joslin  did  not  un- 
derstand the  methods  of  these  men,  but  vaguely  he 
gathered  that  what  he  had  said  had  been  well  re- 
ceived. 

On  the  whole  he  felt  content.  Now,  he  said  to  him- 
self, on  the  very  next  day  he  would  go  about  his  own 

103 


THE  WAY  OUT 

business.  He  would  leave  this  place,  which  confused 
him  so  much.  He  was  done  with  the  city  now.  He 
had  done  his  duty. 

But  this  did  not  by  any  means  close  the  entertain- 
ment of  the  evening  as  these  men  conceived  it.  As 
they  had  been  revelers  and  again  business  men,  so  now 
once  more  they  laid  aside  the  habit  of  affairs  and 
turned  again  to  the  business  of  banqueting.  Waiters 
came  quickly  and  filled  up  glasses,  large  glasses,  with 
bubbling  wine.  Again  mingling  voices  arose,  laughter, 
jests.  The  glasses  were  filled  again,  and  yet  again. 
The  business  of  the  day  was  over.  Joy  was  to  be  more 
unconfined 

Men  drew  back  curtains  at  the  head  of  the  hall, 
revealing  a  little  platform  where  stood  a  piano,  which 
was  wheeled  into  place.  At  a  signal  from  Haddon 
there  entered  an  orchestra  of  foreign  sort,  and  they 
mingled  music  and  jangling  discord  of  the  usual  kind, 
perhaps  among  other  things  a  melody  or  so  of  the 
hour;  for  voices  arose,  and  sounds  of  hands  and  feet 
keeping  time.  A  basso,  very  knock-kneed  and  small 
of  chin,  appeared  from  some  unknown  region,  sang  a 
solo,  bowed  and  disappeared.  A  quartet  of  negro 
singers  furnished  rather  better  entertainment,  so  it 
seemed.  And  then  men  began  to  push  back  their 
chairs,  so  that  they  might  easily  see  the  entrance  of 
the  room. 

All  at  once  a  round  of  general  and  vociferous  ap- 

104 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

plause  arose.  Jimmy  Haddon  arose  and  hastened  to 
greet  the  latest  comers. 

There  stood  in  the  doorway  two  young  women, 
dressed  with  a  certain  similarity,  their  long  cloaks  held 
together  by  clasps,  their  arms  in  long  white  gloves. 
There  were  two,  but  there  might  as  well  have 
been  but  one,  for  the  older  of  the  concert  team  of 
Pendleton  and  Stanton — Pollie  Pendleton  and  Nina 
Stanton,  known  in  every  theater  of  the  land  that 
—lacked  so  much  of  the  charm  of  her  companion 
that  she  quite  resigned  herself  to  the  amiable  role  of 
foil. 

They  were  young  women  of  that  sort  known 
in  Bablylon  and  Boston.  Whence  they  come,  who 
shall  say?  Whither  they  go,  who  knows — the 
young  women  of  the  world,  the  beloved  and  the  for- 
gotten. The  world  has  always  had  them,  and 
perhaps  will  always  have  them — young,  splen- 
didly beautiful,  splendidly  alluring — who  come  from 
none  knows  whence,  and  who  go  no  one  knows 
whither. 

The  assembled  males  applauded  when  they  saw 
these  two  young  women  standing  there — short  of 
skirt,  low  of  slipper,  low  of  gown.  All  but  one  rose 
gaily  to  welcome  them.  One  man  sat  trans- 
fixed. 

There  was  revealed  to  David  Joslin,  in  the  person 
of  Polly  Pendleton,  such  a  vision  as  never  had  he 

105 


THE  WAY  OUT 

known  in  all  his  life,  a  dream  which  he  not  yet  had 
dreamed,  nor  could  have  dreamed,  so  wholly  outside 
of  all  his  possible  experience  must  it  have  been  called. 
He  never  before  had  seen  woman  at  her  frank  best  in 
sheer  riot  of  the  beauty  of  her  sex.    It  awed  him. 

She  was  *  woman,  but  scarce  seemed  that  to  him. 
To  his  eyes  she  was  not  woman,  but  some  supernal 
thing,  a  Presence,  a  Being.  And  in  the  sheer  fact 
that  she  was  of  his  genus,  of  his  species,  that  she  was 
woman  and  he  was  man,  he  sat  suddenly  exalted,  glori- 
fied himself,  superman — for  now  at  last  his  eyes  had 
seen! 

She  smiled  at  them  all  in  her  swift  and  comradeiy 
fashion,  and  stepped  promptly  toward  the  little  plat- 
form. Not  a  man  there  who  did  not  know  Polly 
Pendleton  of  the  Follies,  the  best-liked  girl  on  the  stage 
that  year.  Singer,  violinist,  dancer — she  had  made  her 
way  up  by  one  or  the  other  of  her  arts  or  all  of  them, 
until  now  she  might  use  all  or  either,  as  she  liked. 

A  woman  of  about  middle  stature  was  Polly  Pen- 
dleton, of  covetably  slender  and  firm-set  figure.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  dark,  with  long  lashes,  her  face  a> 
strong,  clean  oval,  her  skin  clear,  her  teeth  brilliant,' 
her  head  a  mass  of  short,  dark  curls.  So  much  might 
be  said  of  many  women,  perhaps,  but  Polly  Pendleton 
had  some  strange  plus  charm  of  her  own,  that  charm 
for  which  managers  pay  any  price.  She  seemed  the 
very  spirit,  the  very  embodiment  of  life,  youth,  eager- 

106 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

ness — of  vital  joy  itself.  The  thought  of  evil  could 
not  touch  her,  so  sweet  and  clean  she  seemed,  in  every 
fiber  of  her  being  there  was  such  life  and  such  joy  in 
living.  Her  gestures  were  those  of  the  young  animal, 
of  the  bird,  careless,  unstudied.  She  had  no  art,  but 
succeeded  through  her  lack  of  art  and  through  her  own 
zest,  her  sheer  vitality. 

When  Polly  Pendleton  stood  waiting  for  something, 
interested  in  anything,  keyed  up,  not  even  her  feet 
could  rest  upon  the  floor.  She  had  a  strange  way  some- 
times, even  when  talking  to  one,  of  dancing  up  and 
clown  on  her  toes,  light  as  a  feather,  her  young  limbs 
seeming  not  to  feel  the  weight  of  her  body.  There 
seemed  an  ethereal  air  about  her,  as  though  she  needed 
to  walk,  needed  not  to  stand,  unless  she  liked. 

She  stood  now  before  them,  having  drawn  from 
beneath  her  coat  her  cherished  violin,  whose  music 
had  pleased  so  many  thousands.  Obviously  she  in- 
tended first  to  play.  She  laid  aside  her  cloak  and  stood, 
eager,  interested,  slightly  leaning  forward,  anxious, 
dancing  up  and  down  upon  her  little  feet.  Youth, 
life,  joy,  vitality,  freedom  from  care,  absolute  igno- 
rance and  disregard  of  toil  or  trouble  or  anxiety — 
there  stood  Polly  Pendleton. 

She  laid  the  violin  to  her  cheek  and,  her  eyes  now 
aside  and  high,  drew  a  strong,  firm  bow  across  the 
strings.  When  she  did  this  she  drew  out  the  heart 
and  soul  from  the  body  of  David  Joslin. 

107 


THE  WAY  OUT 

But  David  Joslin  never  really  had  heard  the  violin 
before.  Of  actual  music  he  knew  nothing.  He  had 
never  heard  a  master  of  any  instrument  in  all  his  life. 
But  the  sound  of  the  violin  itself,  last  keen  climax 
in  this  atmosphere  of  exhilaration,  where  now  the 
young  spirit  of  this  one  fragile  girl  commanded  the 
strong  masculine  spirit  of  all  these  massed  men — 
for  David  Joslin  constituted  an  overwhelming  expe- 
rience. 

She  finished  her  number,  and  when  the  roar  of  ap- 
plause had  ceased  turned  to  her  associate,  who  seated 
herself  at  the  piano.  They  both  sang — one  of  their 
duets;  and  as  part  of  this  Polly  Pendleton  herself 
danced — whirling  about  in  pirouettes  where  her  toes 
seemed  scarce  to  find  a  footing,  her  round,  strong 
limbs  insouciantly  exposed.  She  was  but  the  spirit  of 
youth,  of  life,  of  joy. 

Now  certain  of  the  critical  began  to  demand  some- 
thing known  earlier  as  especially  delectable. 

"Sing  us  the  real  one,  Polly !"  they  cried.  "Sing  us 
The  Only  Man/  why  don't  you  ?" 

"Yes ;  that's  it— that's  it— give  us  'The  Only  Man,' 
Polly ;"  and  vigorous  handclapping  ensued. 

She  stood  facing  them  again  at  the  little  raised  dais, 
her  lips  parted,  her  white  teeth  visible  under  her  short, 
smiling  upper  lip.  She  was  always  eager  to  please, 
counting  not  the  cost  of  herself — a  rich  and  generous 
soul  indeed  was  hers.    Not  so  much  her  fault  as  ours 

108 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

was  it  that  she  was  here,  one  of  the  sacrifices,  the 
perishing  imperishables  of  the  world. 

But  Polly  began  to  sing.  The  words  matter  little. 
It  was  the  chorus  which  had  brought  her  fame.  She 
left  the  dais  now,  and  advanced  down  the  long  table, 
her  whole  face  a-laugh.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  a 
certain  large,  red-faced  and  very  bald  gentleman  who 
sat  halfway  down  the  table  at  the  left.  Him  she  ap- 
proached, singing  as  she  came.  She  bent  above  him, 
put  an  arm  about  his  face,  a  hand  under  his  chin,  and 
drew  his  head  back  as  she  bent  above  and  sang  to 
him. 

"For  you  are  my  Baby!"  sang  Polly  Pendleton. 
"You  are  my  Baby !  You're  the  only,  only,  only  man 
for  me." 

Roars  of  laughter  greeted  this.  They  sang  in 
chorus  with  her:  "You're  the  only,  only,  only  man 
forme!" 

"Come  here,  Polly,"  called  this  man  and  that.  "This 
way !    You  certainly  are  the  only  girl  for  me." 

But  Polly  Pendleton  was  back  at  the  head  of  the 
table  once  more,  still  singing,  still  light  of  foot,  still 
gay  of  song.  She  stood  and  faced  them  just  for  a 
moment.  Something  she  saw  which  seemed  to  arrest 
her  own  attention — a  grave,  unsmiling  face,  with  eyes 
like  coals,  a  white  face  which  looked  straight  at 
hers.  .  .  . 

It  was  no  more  than  a  pace  or  two  for  Polly  to 
109 


THE  WAY  OUT 

reach  the  head  of  the  table,  to  push  a  hand  out  against 
the  raised  one  of  Jimmy  Haddon  as  he  sat  there  flushed 
and  laughing.  The  next  instant  she  had  stopped,  and 
with  the  audacity  of  her  very  nature,  so  used  to  being 
allowed  its  own  freakish  will,  she  passed  an  arm  about 
the  head  of  David  Joslin,  a  hand  beneath  his  chin. 
She  drew  his  white  face  back,  looked  down  into  his 
eyes,  and  sang — for  a  little  while  at  least — "You* re 
the  only,  only,  only  man  for  me!" 

Something  in  the  tense  tableau  they  saw — some 
note,  undefinable,  caused  every  man  of  that  virile  as- 
semblage to  cease  his  laughter  and  applause.  They 
stared.  They  saw  the  great  hands  of  the  man  close 
tight  about  the  white  wrists  of  Polly  Pendleton.  She 
ceased  to  stroke  the  strong  hair  of  David  Joslin,  and 
stood  back,  finishing  her  song  out  of  touch  and  out  of 
tune.  Some  thought  her  voice  quavered  just  a  little. 
But  she  sprang  back  tiptoe  again  upon  the  little  dais, 
and  finished  boldly — yes,  and  added  thereto  the  notes 
of  her  violin.  None  the  less,  there  had  been  a  scene. 
Someone  had  not  played  the  game.  And  they  must 
take  care  of  Polly. 

They  broke  into  applause.  Someone  started  to  pass 
a  plate  down  the  tabh.  It  was  heaped  up  with  money, 
in  great  part  yellow  in  color.  Coins  fell  on  the  floor — 
but  there  were  no  small  silver  ones.  Some  near  by 
flung  money  in  the  general  direction  of  the  little  plat- 
form where  the  two  young  women  stood,  smiling  and 

110 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

bowing  deeply — smiling  at  what  they  knew  to  be  the 
success  of  their  little  offerings  that  evening. 

"Here  you  go,  Polly!"  as  one  man  after  another 
cast  toward  her  something  folded.  And  Polly,  grave 
and  a  trifle  white  now,  leaving  her  associate  bowing 
on  the  stage,  passed  down  the  aisle,  met  the  heaped 
plate  on  its  way,  stopped  here  and  stopped  there,  laugh- 
ing and  talking,  chattering  like  some  innocent  child, 
picking  up  money — money — more  money  than  David 
Joslin  had  thought  there  was  in  all  the  world.  He 
alone  gave  nothing,  for  he  had  naught  to  give — only 
the  happiness  and  peace  of  a  human  soul. 

There  was  so  much  tribute  that  Polly  made  great 
show  of  thrusting  part  of  it  beneath  her  garter,  till 
she  could  hold  no  more  in  that  fashion.  Some  she 
thrust  into  her  bosom,  and  then,  turning,  carried  the 
rest  of  it  to  her  partner,  who  happily  was  provided 
with  a  reticule. 

Everybody  laughed — everybody  was  pleased.  It 
had  cost  them  very  little — perhaps  a  few  hundred  dol- 
lars— to  make  these  two  girls  feel  that  they  had  made 
a  hit.  The  wine  was  excellent.  Everything  had  been 
splendid  in  every  way.  The  cost?  Why,  what  Jimmy 
Haddon  had  done  for  them  in  bringing  this  geezer  here 
to  tell  them  about  their  property  would  bring  them 
more  than  ten  thousand  times  the  cost  of  the  banquet, 
or  the  cost  of  the  whole  investment. 

And  so,  after  a  time,  the  banquet  ended,  very  late — 
111 


THE  WAY  OUT 

ended,  indeed,  when  Polly  Pendleton  and  her  friend, 
laughing  and  kissing  their  hands — Polly  with  her 
violin  tucked  under  her  arm  and  her  cloak  over  all — 
turned  once  more  to  the  door  of  the  crystal  and  gold 
room  of  the  Williston  banquet  suite.  Men  rose  and 
waved  serviettes  at  them,  shouted  good-by,  asked  them 
to  come  again.  Haddon  himself  walked  with  Polly 
Pendleton  to  the  door,  kissed  her  hand,  bowed  good- 
night. 

As  he  turned  oack  he  saw  standing,  staring  at  hkn 
fixedly,  the  tall,  white- faced  figure  of  the  mountaineer, 
whom  he  had  utterly  forgotten.  The  eyes  of  David 
Joslin  were  like  coals. 

"Some  girl,  eh — what?"  said  Haddon  admiringly 
to  his  uncouth  friend. 

But  Joslin  made  him  no  reply.  What  he  had  seen, 
what  he  had  felt  that  night,  was  epochal,  abysmal  for 
him.  He  had  looked  into  her  eyes.  He  had  seen  her 
face  framed  in  her  dark  hair — had  caught  the  very 
fragrance  of  her  hair  itself.     He  was  mad. 

A  motor  car  stood  below,  waiting  for  the  popular 
team  of  Pendleton  and  Stanton.  It  whirled  them  now 
far  uptown,  to  the  little  buffet  flat  which  made  their 
nome.  Nina,  matter-of-fact  as  usual,  busied  herself 
about  her  preparations  for  the  close  of  the  day's  work. 
But,  singularly  enough,  Polly,  usually  riante  and  active 
to  the  very  last  moment  of  the  day,  sat,  cigarette  in 
hand,  silent,  somewhat  triste. 

112 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

•'What's  the  matter,  Polly?— Why  don't  you  get 
ready  ? — I'm  sleepy  as  an  owl.  What  are  you  wolfing 
about  ?' 

"What  makes  you  ask  that,  Nina?" 

"Well,  it's  something." 

Silence  for  a  time,  and  then  Polly  spoke.  "How 
dc  you  think  it  went  to-night,  Nina?" 

"Well,  all  I've  got  to  say,"  replied  that  worthy  young 
woman,  "if  it  went  this  well  about  one  or  two  more 
nights  a  week  or  a  month,  we  could  retire  and  live 
along  the  Sound  like  ladies  the  rest  of  our  lives." 

"I  wish  it  was  all  back,"  said  Polly  Pendleton,  som- 
berly. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  the  money." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  exclaimed  Nina  Stanton, 
staring  at  her  partner.  "What's  the  matter  with  you, 
Polly  ?  Have  you  gone  crazy  ?  What's  set  you  think- 
ing this  way?    Of  all  things!" 

"Well,  it  was  that  man,  maybe.  He  mighty  near 
queered  me.  It's  always  a  man,  you  know — a  girl 
can't  get  away  from  that." 

Nina  still  looked  at  her  in  wonderment.  "You're 
out  of  your  head,  kid,"  said  she.  "If  anyone  in  little 
old  New  York  ought  to  be  happy  tonight,  it's  you, 
fitting  right  there  grouching  like  you  are.  They  didn't 
set  me — I  wasn't  there  at  all.  You  were  the  whole 
works.     J  hate  to  take  the  money  from  you — and  I 

113 


THE  WAY  OUT 

wouldn't  if  I  didn't  know  you'd  only  spend  it.  I  have 
to  watch  you  like  a  mother,  kid." 

But  Polly  sat,  shaking  her  head  in  somber  discon- 
tent, the  little  blue  rings  of  her  cigarette  rising  un- 
disturbed before  her. 

"Who  was  he,  Nina?**  she  asked  after  a  time. 

"Who  was  who?  The  big  bald-face  guy  down  the 
table? — that  was  Rankin  of  Rankin  and  Swan.  He 
acted  like  a  good  sport.  As  for  Jimmy  Haddon,  he 
must  have  chipped  in  fifty,  anyways." 

But  Polly  was  shaking  her  head  from  side  to  side. 

"Oh,  of  course,  you  mean  the  reuben  at  the  head 
of  the  table  you  were  joshing.  It  was  the  hit  of  the 
evening." 

"Was  it,  though?"  said  Polly  vaguely. 

"The  hit  of  the  evening,  kid.  That's  what  brought 
them  across." 

"Well,"  said  Polly,  "it  was  a  raw  deal  for  him,  I 
suppose.  Look  here."  She  held  up  her  wrist.  It 
showed  a  blue  line  about  it.  "I  never  felt  a  man's 
hand  like  that  in  all  my  life.  He  could  have  broken 
my  arm  if  he'd  wanted  to."  She  pushed  a  bracelet 
reflectively  up  and  down  across  the  bruised  ring  which 
the  clutch  of  Joslin's  fingers  had  left  upon  her  white 
skin. 

"Oh,  I  guess  he  liked  it  all  right,"  commented  Nina 
casually.    "They  mostly  do." 

"That's   the  trouble,"    rejoined   Polly   sagely.      "I 

114 


POLLY   PENDLETON 

can't  tell  how  it  was,  but  somehow  that  man  made  me 
feel  ashamed!  There  was  something  in  his  face — I 
can't  tell  you  what.  Ever  since,  I've  been  feeling  as 
if  this  money  didn't  belong  to  us.  I've  a  notion  to 
give  you  my  share,  Nina." 

"You  can't,  kid.  I've  always  been  on  the  level  with 
you.  I'll  take  you  over  my  knee  and  give  you  a  spank- 
ing now  if  you  don't  shut  up.  You  talk  silly.  An 
ordinary  hayseed  from  the  hills — you  better  be  think- 
ing of  Rankin  with  his  private  yachts,  or  little  old 
Jimmy,  your  solid.  You  can't  complain.  You'd  better 
be  content  with  what  you  got." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Nina?  I  only  say  I  feel  sort 
of  ashamed.  I  never  felt  my  skirts  were  short  before 
in  all  my  life.    I  did  then." 

Nina  only  turned  with  a  short  laugh  as  she  stooped 
to  unfasten  her  own  shoes  in  her  progress  towards  her 
night  toilet.  Polly  arose  and  went  to  the  panel  where 
protruded  the  handle  of  the  wall  bed  which  these  two 
loyal  and  thrifty  partners  occupied  in  common.  She 
pulled  down  the  bed,  went  to  the  little  wardrobe  for 
her  own  night  robe,  and,  moodily  silent,  prepared  her- 
self for  sleep.    At  last  she  paused. 

"Nina,"  she  said  again,  with  a  certain  imperative 
quality  in  her  tone. 

"What  is  it,  kid?"  demanded  her  good-humored 
friend. 

"You  know  what  I  think?" 
115 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"No,  I  don't.    I  don't  think  you  think  at  all." 

"Well,  Til  tell  you.  Sometimes  I  think  I've  had 
about  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing.  I'm  sore  on  it.  It 
makes  me  sick.    All  those  men " 

"But  if  it  was  the  'only,  only,  only  man'?"  grinned 
Nina. 

"I  wonder,"  began  Polly  to  herself — "I  wonder 
now " 

But  what  she  wondered  she  did  not  vouchsafe.  It 
was  some  time  later,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  that 
Nina  felt  a  hand  upon  her  arm,  shaking  her. 

"What's  the  idea,  kid?"  she  said  sleepily  "Can't 
you  let  a  fellow  sleep?    I'm  almost  dead." 

"Nina,  tell  me  1"  demanded  Polly,  a  strange  earnest- 
ness in  her  voice.  "Am  I  bad  ?  Nina — tell  me — am  I 
as  bad  as  that?" 

"Oh,  shut  up,  kid,"  said  Nina,  bored.  "Go  on  to 
sleep.  There's  bats  in  your  garret  to-night,  sure 
thing- 


CHAPTER  X 

MR.    HADDON's   POINT   OF  VIEW 

H  ADDON,  puffy  about  the  eyes,  trembling  of 
fingers,  sat  at  table  the  next  day  offering  a 
very  fine  example  of  the  morning  after  or- 
ganized hilarity.  The  man  opposed  to  him,  haggard 
and  hollow-eyed,  might  have  been  suspected  of  indul- 
gences similar  to  those  of  his  host,  although  such 
would  have  been  an  unjust  accusation. 

Haddon  found  two  stiff  drinks  of  whisky  needful 
to  attract  his  interest  to  his  breakfast.  Then  he  broke 
the  moody  silence  which  had  marked  him. 

"I  say,  old  man,"  he  began,  "you  made  a  pretty  fair 
speech  to  the  boys  last  night.  We're  holding  down 
more  than  three  hundred  thousand  acres  of  land  in 
the  Cumberlands.  We're  in  deep,  and  some  of  the 
fellows  were  getting  cold  feet  until  I  brought  you  on 
to  tell  them  something  about  our  holdings." 

Joslin  sat  looking  at  him  in  silence,  and  he  went 
on  presently. 

"You  see,  our  money  has  been  in  there  for  twenty 
years,  some  of  it — that  was  long  before  I  went  into 
the  Company,  of  course.     The  holding  of  raw  re- 

117 


THE  WAY  OUT 

sources  is  a  waiting  game — you  cash  in  stiff  after  a 
long  wait.    That's  what  we've  got  to  do  now. 

"But  the  way  to  handle  this  thing  is  to  crowd  when 
the  line  begins  to  break.  It's  time  now  for  us  to  begin 
to  crowd.  We've  got  to  begin  to  cash  in  before  long, 
for  the  interest  and  taxes  have  been  eating  us  up 
long  enough. 

"Now,  we  need  a  good  man  down  in  there.  The 
boys  have  been  sending  me  because  they  couldn't  do 
any  better.  You  and  I  between  us  know  about  how 
much  I  know — we  both  know  that  you  know  a  lot 
more  than  I  do.  Now,  you've  been  talking  to  me  a 
lot  of  rot  about  starting  a  college  or  a  school,  or  some- 
thing— I  don't  remember  what  all  you  were  saying. 
Forget  it!  Cut  out  all  that  business  about  saving 
your  country.  Think  a  little  bit  about  saving  your- 
self. This  business  of  doing  a  whole  lot  for  other 
people  is  all  right  on  paper,  but  when  it  comes  down 
to  practical  life  there's  nothing  in  it.  A  fellow's  got 
to  think  of  himself. 

"Now,  what  are  you  doing  for  yourself?  You're 
sitting  here  in  my  house — not  that  I  want  to  rub  it  in 
by  telling  you  so — in  a  suit  of  my  clothes  and  a  pair 
of  my  shoes.  You're  wearing  my  shirt  and  my  socks 
right  now.  You  haven't  got  a  dollar  of  your  own 
money  in  your  clothes  today.  You  told  me  that  you 
had  a  wife  and  a  grandmother.  What  are  you 
going  to  do  about  them?    Any  way  you  look,  you're 

118 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

in  a  fine  position  to  build  a  college!     Why,  hell! 

"On  the  other  hand,  New  York  ain't  such  a  slow 
village,  is  she  ?  Pretty  nice,  eh  ?  Something  of  a  party 
last  night,  what?    Some  girls,  huh? 

"Now,  listen.  You  might  do  a  lot  worse  than  stay- 
ing right  here  in  New  York  this  fall  and  winter — 
you'd  be  on  the  pay  roll  all  right.  We  could  make  a 
pretty  good  thing  of  it  for  you  if  you  went  in  with  us 
and  stood  by  us  through  thick  or  thin,  right  or  wrong. 
We  might  think  of  a  lot  of  things  we'd  like  to  ask  you. 

"You've  been  talking  a  lot  of  bally  rot  about  your 
duty  to  these  people — seeing  that  we  wouldn't  rob 
them  in  the  price  we  paid  for  the  land  or  the  oil  leases. 
You  know  mighty  well  we  can  go  down  there  and  lease 
a  whole  farm  a  hundred  years  for  a  dollar.  Now,  you 
can  crab  our  whole  act — that's  easy  to  see — if  you  go 
down  there  and  tell  those  people  they're  fools,  and 
that  they  ought  to  have  two  dollars  an  acre  for  their 
oil  rights — more'n  we've  paid  them  for  all  their  coal 
and  their  timber  and  their  land  any  time  these  last 
twenty  years!  You  can  see  easily  enough  from  the 
class  of  men  I've  shown  you  here  last  night  that  we've 
got  all  the  money  we  need,  all  the  money  that  anybody 
needs  to  pay  for  what  we  want.  But  we  want  loyalty. 
We  want  service.  We  want  someone  to  stand  with 
us,  thick  or  thin,  right  or  wrong.  Do  you  under- 
stand 

Joslin  looked  at  the  puffy  face  of  the  man  who 
119 


THE  WAY  OUT 

spoke,  his  heavy  cheeks,  his  thickening  neck,  his  watery 
eyes,  scmewhat  reddened  about  the  rims.  He  replied 
slowly. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Haddon,  I  reckon  I  do  understand,"  said 
he. 

"Well,  well,  then,  what  about  it  ?  Do  you  find  New 
York  such  a  poor  place  to  live  in?  Isn't  there  any- 
thing here  to  light  you  up  a  little  bit  more  than  any- 
thing you  ever  saw  down  in  the  Cumberlands  ?" 

Joslin  looked  at  him,  his  pale  face  going  still  paler. 
"I've  seen  things  here  I  didn't  know  was  in  all  the 
world.  But  ye  wasn't  asking  me  to  sell  out  my  own 
people,  was  ye  ?" 

"There  you  go  again!"  retorted  the  irritated  man 
across  the  table  from  him.  "Rot!  I've  told  you  the 
question  of  right  or  wrong  don't  come  into  business  at 
all.  Business  is  business.  Highbrow  things  don't 
come  into  it  at  all.  Don't  you  want  to  know  what 
life  is — don't  you  want  to  branch  out — don't  you  want 
to  see  what  the  world  has — all  the  people  in  it,  the 
life  of  it?  Why,  man,  at  first  you  looked  to  me  as 
though  you  weren't  a  sissy  or  a  simp." 

The  moisture  on  Joslin's  forehead  meant  nothing  to 
the  man  who  faced  him,  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
self-loathing,  the  self-reproach,  that  lay  in  Joslin's 
heart. 

"Well,  anyhow,  if  you  lived  in  this  country  for  a 
while  you  might  change  your  point  of  view,"  finished 

120 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW 

Haddon,  pushing  back  his  chair.  "What's  your  hurry, 
getting  out  of  town  ?  You  haven't  got  a  cent  to  your 
name,  you  don't  know  where  you're  going,  you  don't 
know  what  to  do.    I'm  sorry  for  you " 

"Ye  needn't  be,"  said  David  Joslin.  "Ye  kain't 
pity  a  mounting  man — he  won't  have  it !" 

"Hell's  bells!"  ejaculated  the  irate  man  whom  he 
addressed.  "I'm  not  trying  to  change  any  of  those 
damned  hill-billies  down  there.  That's  not  the  ques- 
tion. I  put  it  up  to  you  that  you're  here  in  New  York, 
and  you've  got  a  chance  to  save  up  a  little  money  to 
buy  your  bally  old  education.  You  don't  have  to  lose 
any  of  your  principles.  It's  just  making  good — that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  If  you  want  to  make  good  you're  on. 
If  you  don't — good-by!" 

He  rose  from  the  table,  irritated,  his  nerves  still 
a-jangle;  but  a  sort  of  compunction  came  to  him,  or 
perhaps  the  feeling  that  he  was  making  a  business 
mistake  in  crowding  this  man.  A  sudden  half-smile 
came  to  his  face  as  he  turned  when  the  house  man 
brought  his  hat  and  stick  for  him. 

"It's  a  stiff  gait  we  travel  here,"  said  he.  "Now 
I'm  going  to  my  shop  to  see  if  I  can  earn  a  dollar  or 
two  to  pay  the  rent.  I  believe  I'll  turn  you  over  to 
my  chauffeur  and  let  him  drive  you  'bout  town  for 
a  day  or  so.  You  remember  that  kid  that  was  there 
last  night — one  that  sang  and  played  to  us — Polly 
Pendleton,  her  name  was.    I  saw  you  having  a  good 

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THE  WAY  OUT 

look  at  that  young  dame.  Some  calico,  what?  Yeh, 
some  girl.  Now,  listen  here — how'd  you  like  to  go 
up  and  have  a  little  visit  with  Polly  around  eleven- 
thirty  or  so?  I  could  fix  it  up.  Touch  of  life,  eh? 
Gad,  she  seemed  to  be  interested  in  you  somehow — 
scared  or  something.    Now " 

David  Joslin  went  suddenly  white.  "Ye  fergit,  I 
reckon — I  told  ye  I  was  a  married  man.  I've  got  a 
wife — we  had  two  children,  down  thar  in  Kentucky." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  wife  too,"  rejoined  Haddon  con- 
templatively. "If  I  had  any  children  I'd  need  that 
much  more  of  something  to  make  me  forget  my  con- 
dition of  servitude.  I  don't  know  where  the  Missus 
has  gone  to,  but  she's  shook  us  this  morning,  that's 
plain!  You  go  up  and  talk  religion  to  Polly,  while  I 
go  down  to  the  office  and  try  to  make  a  dollar  and  a 
quarter.  Maybe  you  can  save  a  human  soul — eh? 
That's  up  to  you. 

"Life  is  so  short,"  he  went  on  presently,  finding  a 
cigarette  in  his  pocket.  "Why  hang  crepe  when  life 
is  so  darned  short?  I  don't  blame  you  for  wanting 
to  learn  the  alphabet  and  the  multiplication  table,  but 
if  a  man  came  to  me  and  gave  me  a  chance  like  this, 
I'd  postpone  those  things." 

Jimmy  Haddon  went  grimly  chuckling  to  his  own 
desk,  and  left  the  question  of  the  gentleman  from 
Kentucky  and  the  lady  of  Harlem  strictly  upon  the 
knees  of  the  gods. 


CHAPTER  XI 

POLLY  PENDLETON'S  VISITOR 

THE  cynically  smiling  driver  of  Haddon's  car 
at  a  late  hour  that  morning  deposited  a  soli- 
tary passenger  at  the  door  of  a  certain  apart- 
ment building  high  up  on  Manhattan  Island.  Seeing 
the  bewilderment  of  his  charge,  the  chauffeur  himself 
entered  the  elevator  with  him  and  touched  as  with  no 
unaccustomed  hand  a  certain  button  near  a  door.  He 
then  discreetly  departed. 

The  door  opened.  There  appeared  almost  in  the 
face  of  the  waiting  visitor  the  figure  of  a  young 
woman— exceedingly  comely  even  at  that  hour  of  the 
day — a  young  woman  of  oval  face,  of  dark,  long- 
lashed  eyes,  of  dark  curling  hair,  of  shapeliness  of 
figure  scantly  veiled  by  the  pink  kimono  which  she 
wore  in  morning  negligee. 

It  was  Polly  Pendleton.  She  was  alone.  Her 
praiseworthy  partner  had  before  this  arisen  for  her 
morning  cocktail,  her  morning  coffee,  her  morning 
cigarette,  and  her  morning  stroll  downtown. 

Joslin  stood  motionless,  silent.  In  a  flash  she  recog- 
nized him.    Then  he  stalked  in. 

128 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Well !"  said  she.  "I  wasn't  expecting  anyone  this 
morning."  She  flushed,  half  angry.  "I  don't  allow 
this." 

"My  name  is  Joslin — David  Joslin,"  began  her  vis- 
itor.    "Ye  don't  remember  me — last  night " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  do,"  said  Polly.  "Of  course  I  do.  You 
wore  the  same  clothes  then  you're  wearing  now." 

"They're  the  only  ones  I  have,"  said  the  young  man, 
"an'  they're  not  mine.  I  don't  reckon  ye  want  me 
to  come  in?" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  she,  for  one  half  instant  hesitant, 
and  closed  the  door.    "Why  not,  after  all?" 

He  looked  about  him  curiously  at  the  narrow  quar- 
ters. So,  then,  this  was  her  home!  These  were  her 
belongings — the  half -emptied  glasses  on  the  little 
buffet,  the  ashes  in  a  tray,  the  powder  puff,  pink- 
stained,  on  the  dresser-top,  the  manicure  nail  pad,  the 
little  burnt  cork  on  a  hairpin's  end. 

"Won't  you  sit  down  ?"  began  Polly  Pendleton,  more 
flustered  than  she  had  ever  been  in  all  her  life.  "Will 
you  have  a  little  drink?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "Surely  ye  ain't 
meanin'  that  ye'd  take  a  drink  of  liquor,  Ma'am?" 
said  he. 

"Well,"  said  Polly  Pendleton,  with  a  moue,  "once 
in  a  long  while — in  case  I'm  not  feeling  well,  you 
know!    How  about  yourself?    You  look  rocky." 

He  looked  in  grave  contemplation  at  the  half -filled 
124 


POLLY  PENDLETON'S  VISITOR 

bottle  upon  the  tiny  buffet — the  glasses  which  had  seen 
use. 

"Ma'am,"  said  he,  "sometimes  in  my  country  a  man 
takes  a  drink  of  liquor.  Sometimes  a  woman  smokes 
a  pipe.  But  I  don't  think  I'll  take  no  drink  this 
mornin'.    It  ain't  my  usual  custom." 

Polly  seated  herself  in  a  deep-cushioned  armchair 
near  the  window,  her  half -consumed  cigarette  still  be- 
tween her  fingers.  A  pleasing  enough  picture  she  pre- 
sented, as,  half  leaning  forward,  she  sat  staring  curi- 
ously at  this  apparition  of  the  morning. 

"You're  an  odd  sort!"  said  she,  at  length,  flinging 
up  a  hand  nervously.  "Well,  I've  not  got  down  to  the 
pipe  yet." 

"Say,  friend,"  she  went  on  suddenly,  half  apolo- 
getically, "I  was  talking  to  my  partner  last  night.  She 
said  that  she  thought  our  act  rather  broke  you  up. 
Of  course  you  know  it  was  all  joshing — nothing  more. 
That's  the  way  we  do  at  those  dinner  parties — they 
sorA  of  expect  it  of  us  girls,  you  know.  There's 
nothing  in  it,  of  course.     I  hope  you  didn't  mind  it?" 

"No,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  didn't  mind.  The  ways  of 
sin  are  allurin',  Ma'am." 

"What's  that !"  But  then  she  spread  out  her  hands. 
An  awkward  silence  fell. 

The  eyes  of  David  Joslin,  roaming  around  the  little 
apartment,  spied  Polly's  violin  resting  upon  the 
dresser-top. 

125 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Ye  play  the  violin,  Ma'am,"  said  he.  "Ye're 
the  first  vvomern  I  ever  knew  in  all  my  life  who  could. 
I  reckon  ye  studied?" 

"Years,"  said  she  simply.  "It  cost  me  a  lot  of 
money — and  at  that  they  don't  like  the  best  things  I 
do.    You  can  play?" — eagerly. 

"Only  a  few  of  the  mounting  tunes — ballets  such 
as  our  folks  teached  us  years  ago." 

"Ballads?    You  mean  the  folk  songs?" 

"Maybe.  I  could  play  'Barbara  Allen.'  They  tolt 
me  it  was  Scotch." 

"The  Scotch  have  pretty  melodies  sometimes,"  said 
Polly  Pendleton  judicially.  Then  she  smiled  frankly. 
"You  see,  I'm  half  Irish  myself — and  half  French." 

"What?"  David  Joslin  sat  up  suddenly  and  looked 
at  her  straight.  "Ma'am,  my  own  granny  was  half 
Irish  and  half  French.  There  wasn't  nuvver  a  womern 
in  all  the  mountings  like  her.  That  maybe  accounts 
fer  a  heap  of  things.  My  granny  loves  to  sing  and 
dance.    She's  over  ninety  year  old." 

The  unweighed  flattery  of  his  tone  was  a  thing  to 
be  valued.  She  extended  to  him  the  instrument  and 
bow. 

"Play  for  me,"  said  she.  "Play  'Barbara  Allen.' 
Do  something  for  me  this  morning !" 

So  David  Joslin,  student  of  Calvin,  Cumberland 
mountaineer,  self-elected  minister — and  as  he  now 
fully  felt,  lost  soul — thus  cast  away  in  a  buffet  flat 

126 


POLLY  PENDLETON'S  VISITOR 

of  upper  Manhattan,  played  the  old  ballad  of  "Barbara 
Allen"  to  one  of  the  gayest  young  persons  at  that 
time  in  the  great  city.  He  played  it  in  minors,  bow- 
ing very  badly,  missing  the  key  sometimes  a  half- 
note  or  so,  slurring  here,  over-accentuating  there, 
phrasing  after  his  own  quaint  mountain  fashion,  but 
none  the  less  producing  something  which  might  have 
been  called  a  melody.  Polly's  foot  began  to  beat 
upon  the  floor,  her  fingers  upon  the  arm  of  the  chair. 

"Man !"  said  she,  after  he  had  finished,  "if  I  could 
take  you  into  vaudeville,  we'd  break  this  country! 
That's  class!" 

"It's  not  much,"  said  he,  misunderstanding.  "I 
nuvver  had  no  lessons.  I've  nuwer  been  to  school  in 
all  my  life,  an'  I  nuvver  seen  a  music  book  in  all  my 
life — I  reckon  that's  music  ye  got  over  thar?"  He 
nodded  towards  the  sheets  which  he  saw  standing  in 
their  rack. 

"You're  an  odd  chap,"  said  she,  with  a  strange  soft- 
ness in  her  tone.  "I've  never  seen  a  man  like  you — 
never  in  all  my  life.  You're  a  strange  chap.  What 
brought  you  here?" 

"I  come  out,  Ma'am,  to  build  a  college  fer  my  peo- 
ple.   I  come  out  to  git  my  education.     I  come  up  here 
with  Mr.   II addon,  jest  to  talk  to  a  few  friends  of 
i  about  timber  an'  oil,  ye  know." 
immy  Haddon,  eh?"    Polly's  lips  set  rather  tight 
together.     "Well,  he's  a  good  business  man.     Ycm 

127 


THE  WAY  OUT 

have  to  hand  him  that.  But  say — keep  an  eye  on 
him,  that's  all.  Listen  here,  son — you're  what  we 
call  'easy'  in  the  city.  You  don't  belong  here — you're 
too  straight — you're  too  good  for  it." 

"What  do  ye  mean?"  said  he.  'Too  good!  I'm 
the  wustest  of  sinners.  But  if  I  accepted  sin — say, 
if  I  made  a  lot  of  money — several  hundred  dollars  a 
month — an'  had  it  clear — would  ye  tell  me  to  throw 
that  over  an'  go  back  home?" 

The  dark  eyes  of  Polly  Pendleton  looked  straight 
into  his  face  now. 

"There's  a  lot  of  things  a  girl  can  understand  with- 
out explaining  very  much,"  said  she,  simply.  She  saw 
the  rising  somber  flame  in  this  man's  eyes  that  met 
her  own  so  straight.  And  then,  suddenly,  he  broke 
out,  all  restraints  gone. 

"Last  night  ye  touched  me — it  was  in  a  joke — ye 
was  makin'  me  foolish.  Ye  don't  know  how  foolish 
ye  made  me  then.  Ye  took  away  my  brains.  Ye  got 
my  soul.     God !" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  talk  that  way  to  me !"  flashed 
Polly,  swift  tears  in  her  eyes.  "No,  no — don't — 
don't !  It  wasn't  right  for  me  to  make  fun  of  you — I 
ought  to  have  known  you  were  different.  I  came  home 
last  night,  and  I  talked  about  you  to  my  partner. 
Somehow,  I  don't  know  why,  you  seem  like  a  preacher 
to  me.  Besides,  once  in  a  while  a  woman  sees  some- 
thing in  a  real  man  that  gets  close  to  her." 

128 


POLLY  PENDLETON'S  VISITOR 

She  rose  now  and  spread  out  her  arms,  a  very  beau- 
tiful vision  of  young  womanhood,  a  sort  of  fair  frail- 
ness about  her  after  all,  in  spite  of  her  eager  vitality 
and  her  overflowing  joy  in  life. 

"Why,  listen,"  said  she.  "I  know  about  men.  You 
needn't  make  any  map  to  explain  anything  more  to 
me.  You'd  be  foolish,  you'd  be  crazy;  and  I'll  not 
have  it.  I'm  not  good  enough  for  you.  You  mustn't 
stay  here.  You  mustn't  be  foolish  over  a  girl  like 
me — I'm  not  worth  it.  I'm — I'm  notgood!"  She 
slurred  the  last  two  words  hurriedly  together.  "Get 
on  out  of  here  before  you're  spoiled  n 

Her  voice  trembled.  "The  city  will  get  you,  some 
time.  It's  got  me.  It's  got  my  partner.  We're  gone. 
Lost  souls!  You?  Oh,  don't,  don't!,  You  haven't 
gone  the  gait  that  we  have.  Listen  to  me  now — I 
think  enough  of  a  good  square  chap  not  to  want  to 
see  him  go  the  wrong  way.  Can't  you  see  that  a 
dancing  girl  can  be  a  good  pal  after  all?  I'm  trying 
to  help  you." 

"Easy!"  said  he,  his  voice  trembling  in  his  own 
self -scorn.  "I  had  nothin',  only  what  ye  taken  away 
from  me." 

"Take  some  of  this,  won't  you?"  said  Polly  Pen- 
dleton, her  doubled  hands  full  of  bills  which  she  held 
out  to  him,  her  dark  eyes  shining.  "Here,  take  it. 
Do  something  with  it.  You  wouldn't  call  that  tainted 
money,  would  you  ?  ...  It  isn't  tainted  yet.    Look !" 

129 


THE  WAY  OUT 

But  he  put  back  her  hands.  "No,"  said  he.  "My 
God!     No!     From  ye?" 

He  hurt  her,  because  she  wholly  mistook  his  real 
meaning.  Her  face  fell,  but  she  shook  her  head 
bravely,  like  a  fighter  taking  a  blow  in  the  ring. 

"Ye  never  cared,"  he  added;  "ye  don't  feel — ye 
don't  care."  The  low  notes  of  his  voice  rumbled 
through  the  little  room. 

An  odd  feeling  of  helplessness  seized  her  all  at  once, 
"It's  a  good  thing  for  you,  I  don't,"  said  she  at  length. 
"Don't  I  know  men  are  fools  enough  without  making 
another  fool  to  add  to  the  list?  If  I  cared — good  God, 
if  I  cared!  Why,  I  don't  dare  care  for  anybody. 
Now,  don't  you  think  you'd  better  be  going?" 

She  had  his  hat  in  her  hand,  and  was  replacing  the 
violin  and  bow. 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her,  his  hands  clenched 
tight,  his  eyes  still  burning,  his  voice  vibrant. 

"Ma'am,"  said  he,  "I  nuvver  seen  ye  but  once. 
Maybe  I  nuvver  will  agin.  But  I'll  al<vays  remem- 
ber what  ye  said  to  me." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  was  hopin'  ye'd  say  it  would  be  a  good  piece 
of  business  fer  me  to  stay  here  this  winter  f er  a  while. 
I  was  hopin'  I  could  see  ye  an'  hear  ye  play  some 
time,  now  an'  then.  I  was  hopin' — I  was  hopin*  what 
I  ortern't  to  hope.  Ma'am,  I  nuwer  seen  no  womera 
like  ye  in  all  my  life.    I  reckon  I  nuwer  will  agin." 

130 


POLLY  PENDLETON'S  VISITOR 

"Well,"  said  Polly  Pendleton,  at  length  having  her- 
self in  hand,  "you've  got  none  the  best  of  me  at  that 
— I've  seen  a  considerable  many  fools  in  my  time,  but 
you're  the  human  limit,  son !  The  best  thing  I  can  do 
is  to  tie  a  can  to  you  and  get  you  started  West  as  soon 
as  possible.  You'll  spoil  over  night.  You  ain't 
strictly  human.  You're  the  worst  Rube  that  ever  hit 
this  island  from  any  place  on  earth.  Get  out  now — 
you're  liable  to  be  arrested  any  minute! 

"And  yet,"  she  added — still  laughing  kindly,  and 
all  the  half-virginal  softness  of  her  original  nature 
coming  into  the  wistfulness  of  her  tone — "I'm  so  glad 
you  came!  You're  a  good  sort."  She  held  out  her 
hand.  "Listen,  friend — when  you  think  of  me  I  hope 
you'll  say  I  was  a  good  sort  too." 

He  reached  out  his  arms,  his  hands  trembling. 
"Ma'am,"  said  he,  "I'm  a  married  man.  I  had  two 
children,  onct.  My  father  was  a  preacher.  Ye  was 
right,  I'm  startin'  out  to  be  a  preacher  myself.  I 
was  startin'  out  to  do  something  in  the  world  to  hep 
the  rest  of  them.  But  if  ye  hadn't  said  what  ye  said 
jest  now  to  me,  I'd  be  willin'  to  throw  it  all  away  for 
jest — for  jest — for  jest " 

How,  he  knew  not,  nor  she,  he  caught  her  arms, 
soft  and  white,  in  the  grip  of  his  great  hands,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  her  fiercely,  she  as  helpless  as  a 
child  in  his  grasp. 

She  was  struggling  to  escape  him  now.  "It's  not 
131 


THE  WAY  OUT 

right!"  said  she.  "I'm  alone  here — Oh,  are  you  any 
kind  of  a  man  after  all?" 

At  this  he  dropped  her  arms,  his  own  falling  lax. 

"Why,  of  course  I'm  a  man,"  said  he  quietly.  "Of 
course  I  am.  That's  all  I  am.  I'm  a  lost  man,  a 
damned  one." 

"Go!"  she  whispered  to  him  hoarsely.  "I'm  not 
worth  that.  Go  on  away,  and  leave  me  something 
decent  to  remember."    She  heard  the  door  close  softly. 

Within  half  an  hour  after  Joslin  had  left,  Polly 
Pendleton,  unfinished  cigarette  in  hand,  turned  in  her 
cushioned  armchair  as  she  heard  the  strident  call  of 
the  telephone, 

"Yes?"  she  replied.  "Who  is  it,  please?  .  .  .  You, 
Jimmy?  .  .  .  No,  don't  come  up.  I'm  awfully  busy 
today.  .  .  .  I've  got  to  work. 

"Who  ? — the  wild  man  ?  .  .  .  Keep  him  ?  .  .  .  Ask 
him  to  stay  here  this  winter?  I  should  say  not!  I 
told  him  to  get  out  of  town! 

"Oh,  come  now,  Jimmy,"  she  went  on  in  rejoinder 
to  what  she  evidently  heard.  "There's  no  use  talking 
that  way.  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  sore?  Well,  I  can't  help 
it.  I  wouldn't  have  done  any  different  even  if  you  had 
told  me  what  you  wanted.  .  .  .  You  don't  care  if  I 
never  come  back?  Oh,  very  well — same  to  you,  and 
many  of  'em!  ...  So  long,  Jimmy,  and  when  you 
get  decent  come  up.  I  may  let  you  in,  and  then  again 
maybe  not." 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  STRAIGHT  AND  NARROW  WAY 

WHEN  next  Haddon  and  his  wife  met  at  the 
breakfast  table  Haddon  was  more  than  or- 
dinarily out  of  sorts,  his  wife  rather  more 
than  ordinarily  grave  and  silent  At  length  he  flung 
back  from  the  table. 

"Well,  don't  it  beat  the  devil,"  said  he,  "how  un- 
grateful some  people  are!  Here  our  hill-billy  turns 
up  missing  this  morning.  Where  do  you  suppose  he 
is?" 

"I  fancy  he'll  find  his  way  back.  Perhaps  we'll 
hear  from  him  soon."  She  spoke  quietly,  not  evincing 
any  of  her  own  uneasiness  over  Joslin's  disappear- 
ance. 

"You  seem  to  have  a  very  good  notion  of  him  and 
his  ways!  I'll  say  he  didn't  have  much  politeness 
about  him — just  to  pull  his  freight  without  a  word  of 
thanks.    He  may  have  left  town  for  all  I  know." 

"He's  a  strange  man  in  some  ways!" 

"Well,  if  he's  gone,  he's  thrown  over  the  best  chance 
he  ever  had  in  his  life.  He  didn't  have  a  cent  when 
we  picked  him  up.     I  think  he  was  a  nut,  that's  what 

133 


THE  WAY  OUT 

I  think  he  was,  talking  about  starting  a  college  when 
he  didn't  have  the  price  of  a  pair  of  shoes  to  his 
name.  Why,  our  Company'd  build  him  a  half-dozen 
colleges  if  he'd  come  along  with  us.  I  just  wanted  a 
Httle  more  talk  with  him,  and  here  he's  gone,  no  one 
knows  where." 

"I  gave  him  the  name  of  a  little  school  out  in  the 
town  where  I  was  born— don't  you  know — Brandon 
College?" 

"Well,  Brandon,  Ohio,  don't  happen  to  be  on  the 
map  of  New  York  or  the  Cumberland  Land  and  Min- 
eral Company."  He  was  scowling,  his  red  face  puffy, 
unlovable. 

"Good-by,"  he  concluded  abruptly.  "I've  got  to  get 
downtown  to  a  meeting — and  I've  got  a  hell  of  a  lot  of 
explaining  to  do.  This  Kentucky  friend  of  yours  has 
put  me  in  strictly  Dutch." 

Without  further  salutation  he  turned  to  the  hall 
door.  She  rose,  sighing,  and  passed  out  of  the 
room. 

At  just  about  the  moment  that  the  foregoing  con- 
versation was  taking  place  in  Haddon's  home,  another 
interview  was  advancing,  in  the  smoking  room  of  a 
west-bound  passenger  train  heading  from  the  city. 
Of  the  speakers  one  was  a  grizzled  old  passenger 
conductor  who  had  spent  his  life  on  the  line,  who 
stood  now  regarding  a  tall  raw-boned  young  man, 
whom  he  had  been  obliged  to  accost  for  a  second  time, 

134 


THE    STRAIGHT   WAY 

so  much  absorbed  did  he  seem  in  a  certain  book  v*zt 
which  he  was  poring. 

"Tick-tts,  please !" 

"Good  mornin',"  said  the  young  man,  looking  up. 
"I  didn't  buy  any  ticket,  sir,  because  I  didn't  have  no 
money.    They  let  me  through  the  gate  in  the  crowd." 

"Well,"  said  the  conductor,  "you've  no  business 
here  without  one.    Where  do  you  want  to  go?" 

"I'm  a-goin'  to  Brandon,  Ohio,"  replied  the  young 
man,  his  fingers  now  between  the  pages  of  his  closed 
book.     "I've  got  thirty-five  cents  to  my  name." 

"Brandon,  Ohio — on  thirty-five  cents!  What  do 
you  think  we  are?" 

"I  didn't  expect  ye  to  carry  me  all  the  way  to 
Brandon  fer  that  much,"  replied  David  Joslin.  "I 
only  wanted  to  git  out  into  the  aidge  of  town  if  I 
could,  so  I  could  find  work.  Please  put  me  down 
whar  thar's  a  brickyard,  an'  I  kin  work  my  way.  I'm 
a-goin'  out  thar  to  study  to  be  a  preacher,  ye  see." 

The  gray  old  railway  conductor  looked  at  him  stead- 
ily for  a  time.  There  was  something  so  frank  in  the 
gray  eyes  that  all  he  could  do  was  to  shake  his  head. 
"I'll  see  you  when  I've  finished  making  my  train," 
he  growled,  frowning;  but  he  purposely  delayed  until 
after  the  train  was  more  than  two  hundred  miles  west 
of  the  d 

"Well,  young  man,"  said  he  then,  "I  guess  you'd 
better  get  off  about  here.    My  run  ends  here.    This  is 


THE  WAY  OUT 

quite  a  manufacturing  town,  and  you  can  get  work 
in  a  brickyard,  or  most  any  place,  I  should  think. 
Lord  knows,  labor's  scarce  enough  so  that  anyone  can 
find  work  who  really  wants  to  work." 

"I  thank  ye  very  much,  sir,"  said  David  Joslin, 
simply.  "Ye've  been  right  kind  to  me.  I  believe  the 
Lord  will  bless  ye." 

The  conductor,  abashed,  made  no  reply  whatever, 
but  stood  looking  after  him  as  he  slowly  strode  up  the 
station  platform,  his  gaze  this  way  and  that. 

The  kindly  advice  of  the  railroad  man  proved  use- 
ful. Before  mid-afternoon  Joslin  had  once  more  en- 
gaged in  day  labor  in  one  of  the  brickyards  of  this 
place,  a  city  devoted  to  manufacturing  interests.  He 
was  delighted  to  find  that  here  his  wages  would  be 
as  much  as  a  dollar  and  a  half  a  day.  The  foreman 
showed  him  a  row  of  little  buildings  where,  among 
foreigners  of  all  sorts,  it  might  be  possible  to  get  quar- 
ters and  food  sufficient  to  keep  soul  and  body  together. 
Here,  then,  in  a  little  room  half  lighted  by  flaring 
gas  light,  within  the  sound  of  profanity  and  continu- 
ous card-playing,  David  Joslin  sat  down  for  his  first 
evening  alone  in  the  great  world  of  the  Outside. 

He  began  his  daily  practice  of  copying  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet,  using  a  piece  of  brown  paper  which 
he  had  found,  and  the  stub  of  a  broken  pencil.  Hav- 
ing completed  a  certain  amount  of  this  exercise,  he 
turned  to  the  pages  of  his  book,  laboriously  to  read, 

136 


THE   STRAIGHT   WAY 

as  best  he  could,  the  words  of  old  John  Calvin,  written 
long  ago,  about  Eve,  and  the  Garden,  and  the  Serpent 
and  the  first  great  Sin. 

He  read  until  he  slept  even  as  he  sat.  But  as  he 
slept  he  dreamed  and  started  moaning.  He  felt  on 
him  all  the  weight  of  the  original  Sin. 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE   CLANS 

IN  the  two  years  that  passed  after  David  Joslin 
left  his  home,  no  word  was  received  from  him  by 
any  of  his  friends  or  his  kin,  even  by  his  old 
grandam  left  alone  in  the  hill  cabin.  Even  had  he 
written,  few  could  have  read.  But  no  letter  came  to 
the  little  post-office.  David  Joslin  had  vanished  as 
though  swallowed  up  by  the  great  Outside.  His  ene- 
mies sneeringly  declared  him  dead  or  else  "run  out." 
His  friends  had  much  to  do  to  keep  their  faith  in  him, 
Afterward  a  report  came  up  from  Windsor  that  he 
had  been  seen  there.  None  might  know  that  David 
Joslin  was  biding  his  time. 

It  was  two  years  before  a  vague  stirring  came  into 
the  life  of  the  little  settlement  near  which  he  had  lived. 
Then,  upon  a  certain  day  of  the  late  summer  time, 
there  came  winding  down  the  rugged  pathways  of  the 
Cumberland  coves,  along  the  rocky  creek  bottoms,  and 
at  length  along  the  well-beaten  trails  of  the  larger 
streams,  little  groups  of  riders.  For  the  most  part 
they  were  tall  and  silent  men,  their  eyes  watchful  as 
they  rode.    All  of  them  were  armed.     In  many  cases 

141 


THE  WAY  OUT 

a  woman  sat  back  of  her  husband  on  the  family  mule. 
It  was  a  gathering  of  the  clans,  and  it  was  well  known 
that  in  case  a  man  were  hurt,  his  own  women  folks 
could  nurse  him  better  than  anyone  else.  As  for  that, 
the  women  of  the  mountains  were  as  grim  and  savage 
as  their  lords  and  masters. 

Slowly,  steadily,  watchful,  alert,  these  strange  peo- 
ple of  the  hills  came  riding  down,  the  little  threads  of 
the  broken  procession  converging  toward  the  Forks 
where,  so  went  the  vague  word,  there  was  going  to 
be  a  sort  of  meeting  for  a  day  or  two — for  what  pur- 
pose, few  seemed  to  know.  The  general  understand- 
ing was  that  this  meeting  was  to  be  held  at  the  old  mill 
building  across  the  river.  The  village  postmaster  and 
the  village  blacksmith  had  passed  the  assembly  call 
impartially. 

There  was  other  advice  of  import  tacitly  accepted, 
but,  while  it  was  generally  understood  that  there  might 
be,  and  probably  would  be,  a  reckoning  between  the 
tribes  of  the  Gannts  and  the  Joslins,  those  not  imme- 
diately concerned  in  the  family  quarrel  treated  both 
parties  with  politeness.  To  carry  word  from  one  to 
the  other  would  have  been  an  act  of  treason,  and 
punishable  by  the  unwritten  law  of  that  country.  Men 
went  about  their  daily  duties  and  talked  little  even  to 
their  own  families. 

The  single  street  of  the  little  village — scarce  half  a 
hundred  houses  and  shops  in  all — was  filled  now  with 

142 


THE   CLANS 

groups  of  men  idly  strolling,  every  one  of  them  armed, 
old  and  young.  Among  these  were  boys,  some  not 
older  than  fifteen  years,  yet  each  confident  in  his  own 
ability  to  draw  quick  and  hold  straight,  and  longing 
for  the  chance.  The  fingers  of  many  a  youth  itched 
to  get  at  the  handle  of  the  brand-new  gun  with  which 
before  now  he  had  practiced  so  faithfully,  saving  his 
coppers  for  "hulls"  to  feed  it.  The  older  men  strolled 
about  unagitated.  Group  passed  group  upon  the 
street,  each  man  staring  into  the  eyes  of  his  enemy, 
his  own  face  immobile,  over  his  eye  an  impenetrable 
film — the  eye  of  the  dangerous  man. 

Men  who  casually  estimated  the  respective  repre- 
sentation of  the  Joslins  and  the  Gannts  thought  there 
were  forty  or  fifty  men  on  each  side.  It  was  doubted 
if  half  of  these  would  ever  get  out  of  town  unhurt. 
The  sheriff  was  somewhere  far  to  the  west,  at  the 
county  seat.  There  was  no  peace  officer,  nor  would 
it  have  been  a  good  place  for  one.  It  was  a  meeting 
of  the  clans.  The  Cumberlands  were  going  about 
their  ancient  business  in  their  own  ancient  way. 

Some,  fitfully  interested,  spoke  of  the  new  railway 
now  advancing  from  the  Middle  Fork  up  Hell-fer- 
Sartin.  There  was  talk  that  a  pike  road  had  been 
built  in  as  far  as  the  county  seat  from  somewhere 
very  far  in  the  west,  as  much  as  twenty  miles.  In  a 
general  way  there  seemed  to  hang  in  the  air  an  un- 
settled feeling,  as  though  all  knew  great  events  yet 

143 


THE  WAY  OUT 

might  happen.  The  war  Outside — the  railroad  now 
impending — the  old  feud  now  about  to  break  a-flame 
again — it  was  a  grave  time  for  these  strange,  somber 
folk. 

But  a  day  passed,  two  days,  and  nothing  broke. 
The  leaders  studiously  kept  away  from  the  young  men 
all  that  fiery  liquor  which  would  be  certain  to  set  them 
beyond  control.  The  tenseness  of  the  long  hours  be- 
gan to  tell  on  all.  Men  became  restless — boys  stood 
here  and  there  in  groups,  talking  sullenly,  looking  this 
way  and  that,  nodding  a  head  hither  or  yon.  But 
after  their  old  and  usual  fashion,  the  leaders  of  both 
factions  held  them  together — old  Absalom  Gannt  and 
Chan  Bullock  and  their  respective  attendants.  "Wait, 
fellers/'  was  the  arresting  word  that  went  around. 
"Come  to  the  meetin'  at  the  mill." 

The  main  floor  of  the  mill  building  at  the  Forks 
afforded  a  room  perhaps  fifty  feet  in  one  dimension, 
low-ceiled  and  dark.  The  reticent  postmaster  and  the 
blacksmith  had  previded  a  few  flickering  lamps.  And 
finally  thither,  soon  after  twilight  of  the  appointed 
day,  the  mountaineers  turned,  group  by  group,  man 
after  man,  silently,  two  score  Joslins  and  as  many  or 
more  of  the  Gannts,  all  of  them  too  proud  to  stay 
away  even  though  a  stern  mystery  lay  ahead.  Every 
man  of  them  was  armed,  every  one  of  them  ready  for 
what  might  come.  The  old  mill  building,  the  only 
meeting    place    tacitly    held    neutral    and    the    only 

144 


THE   CLANS 

practical  town  hall  available,  bade  fair  to  see  red  his- 
tory this  night. 

And  there  was  history  done  that  very  night.  They 
had  all  gathered,  the  men  of  both  clans,  thronging  the 
dark  interior.  For  half  an  hour  they  had  sat,  silent 
and  alert,  squatting  here  or  there  on  their  heels,  slouch- 
ing on  sacks  of  grain  or  something  of  the  sort.  The 
Gannts  were  on  the  left-hand  side,  the  Joslins  on  the 
right,  as  one  entered  the  door.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  what  was  expected.  There  still  was  mystery  as 
to  what  had  brought  them  here.  Perhaps  the  post- 
master and  the  blacksmith  knew.  If  so,  they  would 
tell  in  time.  That  word  had  been  passed  to  the  Gannts 
that  the  Joslins  would  be  here,  and  to  the  Joslins  that 
the  Gannts  would  come,  was  the  only  sure  thing;  and 
it  was  quite  enough. 

The  blacksmith  and  the  postmaster  passed  here  and 
there,  setting  alight  their  lamps.  No  man  spoke  on 
either  side.  Both  factions  sat  looking  across  the  little 
white-floored  lane  of  No  Man's  Land  which  lay  be- 
tween them.  A  quick  motion,  a  shout,  the  sound  of  a 
shot,  would  have  been  fatal  to  half  the  men  present 
here;  but  if  any  one  of  them  felt  agitation,  it  was  not 
manifest  by  any  word  or  sign,  by  any  paling  of  the 
face  or  trembling  of  the  hand.  Unagitated,  calm,  they 
sat,  each  with  his  eye  on  his  own  selected  man,  ready 
for  what  might  happen. 

What  did  happen  was  this:  The  door  darkened 
145 


THE  WAY  OUT 

against  the  pale  starlight.  There  stepped  slowjy  into 
the  interior,  where  the  shadows  lay  heavy  upon  the 
floor,  the  figure  of  a  tall  man. 

It  was  a  man  whom  they  all  knew.  As  he  came 
into  the  circle  lighted  by  the  lamps,  a  sort  of  sigh 
went  up,  audible  in  its  united  volume. 

It  was  David  Joslin ! 

Now  they  knew  why  they  were  to  come  here.  The 
leader  of  the  Joslins  had  come  back!  That  meant 
trouble.  He  had  not  died — everybody  knew  that — 
everybody  had  heard  from  down  the  river  that  he  had 
run  out  and  left  the  country.  But  now  he  had  got 
courage  to  come  back! 

Yes,  it  meant  trouble.  The  men  on  both  sides  eased 
off  their  pistol  belts,  loosened  their  holsters,  under 
pretense  of  settling  their  coat  tails  or  fumbling  for 
tobacco. 

But  David  Joslin  raised  his  hand  at  once.  "Wait!" 
said  he.  So,  still  silent,  still  motionless,  they  sat  and 
looked  at  him,  many  in  contempt,  as  many  in  judgment 
suspended. 

He  seemed  thinner  even  than  when  he  had  left. 
His  face  bore  a  certain  scholarly  whiteness  visible 
even  under  the  burning  of  the  sun — Joslin  did  not  tell 
them  so,  but  the  truth  was  he  had  walked  more  than 
half  the  way  from  Brandon  College — where  for  two 
years  he  had  slaved  at  learning  as  no  man  in  all  the 
history  of  that  school  had  been  thought  able  to  slave. 

146 


THE  CLANS 

Penniless  at  his  hopeless  start,  he  still  was  penniless 
after  his  overleaping  of  all  rules  and  schedules  and 
curricula.  He  had  walked  to  this,  his  great  trial.  In 
some  way  he  had  been  fed.  In  his  own  conviction 
that  had  been  by  direct  act  of  God. 

Better  clad  than  when  he  had  left,  in  a  dark  suit 
of  clothing  which  did  not  fit  him  ill,  with  shoes  at 
least  not  badly  broken,  and  with  certain  touches  of 
refinements  of  the  civilization  outside,  none  the  less 
he  remained  the  mountain  man  they  had  known  so 
well  But  something  in  his  voice  seemed  different. 
His  diction  had  altered  perceptibly,  if  not  consist- 
ently. He  stood  before  them  now  at  ease,  a  leader, 
a  speaker,  even  an  orator  of  some  sort,  at  least  in  the 
possession  of  that  gift  of  oratory  which  in  simple 
terms  commands  the  attention  of  an  audience. 

"Wait !"  said  David  Joslin.  "Don't  make  any  move. 
I  know  why  you're  here  as  well  as  you  do,  maybe  a 
good  deal  better.  I  sent  word  in  for  you  all  to  come. 
I've  asked  you  to  come  here  myself — I  arranged  this 
meeting  with  some  of  my  friends  here  at  the  Forks. 
I  wanted  every  moonshiner  and  feudist  in  the  moun- 
tains to  be  right  here  to-night,  where  I  could  look  him 
in  the  eye,  and  he  could  look  me  in  the  eye,  and  we 
could  have  it  out  together. 

"No!  I  don't  mean  to  have  it  out  in  the  old  way. 
I  want  to  tell  you  those  times  are  past.  I  see  you 
sitting  there,   Absalom   Gannt — I   know   you're  not 

147 


THE  WAY  OUT 

a-scared  of  me,  and  I'm  not  a-scared  of  yon.  You're 
fighting  men,  every  one  of  you.  And  you've  come 
here  to  fight  each  other  once  more — to  kill  each  other, 
just  like  you  and  I  and  our  fathers  have  been  doing 
here  in  these  mountains  farther  back  than  any  of  us 
can  remember.  You  don't  know  why  you  do  that,  but 
you  think  you  ought  to  do  it.  It's  a  sort  of  religion 
with  us,  just  to  kill  each  other.  We  don't  know  no 
better — we  never  have. 

"You  thought  I  was  a  coward  because  I  didn't  tell 
anyone  where  I  was  going.  I  didn't  tell  any  of  my 
own  people.  In  a  way,  I  just  sneaked  out  of  this 
country,  that's  true,  because  I  wasn't  yet  sure  about 
it  all.  I  went  down  the  river.  I  got  to  the  railroad. 
I  went  up  North.  After  a  while  I  got  so  that  I  could 
go  to  school.  That's  what  taken  me  out  of  the 
mountains. 

"Before  I  left  these  hills  I  had  resolved  to  learn 
how  to  read  and  write  and  to  cipher  a  little  bit.  I 
didn't  know  then  how  much  there  was  to  be  learned  in 
the  world.  I  didn't  know  how  hard  it  was  to  start — 
nor  how  easy  once  you  get  started. 

"I've  been  at  school  less  than  a  quarter  of  the  time 
any  boy  of  these  hills  ought  to  have  been  there.  I've 
learned  more  than  I  thought  there  was  to  be  learned 
anywhere.  And  this  is  the  first  thing  I've  learned — 
that  it's  time  we  mountaineers  stopped  raising  our 
children  for  the  slaughter. 

148 


THE   CLANS 

*Tve  learned  that  the  only  way  to  stop  that  sort  of 
thing  is  by  way  of  schools.  You  know  how  my  own 
father  died,  and  he  was  a  preacher.  I'm  a-going  to 
be  a  preacher  myself  some  time — I've  preached  once 
or  twice — they  made  me,  up  North  there.  But  I  don't 
want  to  preach  now.  I  just  want  to  talk  to  my 
neighbors. 

"Now,  I  didn't  run  away.  You  know  I  won't 
flicker.  If  it's  war,  I'm  here  for  war — but  I  don't 
want  it  to  be  war. 

"Outside,  in  the  Old  World,  where  our  great- 
grandpaps  came  from  once,  maybe,  they're  having  war. 
It's  worse  than  any  of  you  dream.  But  they're  all 
fighting  for  a  principle,  as  they  think.  We're  fight- 
ing for  nothing  down  here. 

"Now,  I  want  to  see  peace  in  the  Cumberlands.  I'm 
telling  you,  I  want  to  start  a  college  right  here,  on  the 
hill  yonder.  I'm  going  to  do  that  some  time.  Don't 
you  believe  me?" 

He  was  looking  straight  at  old  Absalom  Gannt, 
and  the  old  man,  his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the 
speaker,  answered  him  now. 

"What  law  have  we  got  to  believe  ye?  Ye've  got 
no  money  to  start  a  school.  Ye  couldn't  keep  a 
teacher  thar  if  ye  did."    Thus  old  Absalom. 

"That's  true,"  replied  David  Joslin  quietly.  "That's 
the  Gospel  truth  1  As  I  stand  here  now  I  haven't  got 
two  dollars  in  my  pockets.     It's  plumb  taken  all  the 

149 


THE  WAY  OUT 

money  I've  got  to  keep  the  soul  alive  in  my  body  so  I 
could  study  hard  as  I  had  to.  But  when  I  do  get 
through  up  there,  I  promise  you  I'll  come  here  and 
start  a  college.  Money  or  no  money — help  or  no  help 
— I'll  come  and  start  that  college!  If  I  do,  will  you 
promise  me  that  between  now  and  that  time  you'll 
not  start  any  trouble  here?" 

The  grizzled  old  man — leader  of  his  people,  there- 
fore leader  by  strength  of  mind  as  well  as  body — sat 
silent  now,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  and  Joslin 
returned  his  gaze  with  equal  fearlessness. 

"You  know  I  never  flickered,  Absalom  Gannt! 
You  know  my  people  won't  run  away,  not  one  of 
them.  You  know  I  won't  run  away.  You  all  know 
why  I  left ;  and  now  you  know  why  I've  come  back. 

Tve  come  here  to  do  a  mighty  work,  you'll  have 
to  admit  that  fair.  It's  a  terrible  task  for  all  of  us. 
We've  got  to  change  the  ways  we've  been  living  here 
for  more  than  a  hundred  years.  We've  got  to  break 
a  hole  in  this  wall  that  shuts  us  out  of  the  world  where 
we  belong,  that  makes  us  children  and  paupers  where 
we  ought  to  be  men  and  citizens.  We've  got  to  make 
our  own  way  out. 

"Now,  if  I  agree  with  you  to  make  you  a  college, 
and  keep  it  open — a  place  where  the  children  of  these 
mountains  can  come  to  learn  to  read  and  write  and 
cipher,  and  maybe  go  higher  than  that — if  I  can  bring 
people  here  from  the  outside  to  show  you  what  a  big 

150 


THE  CLANS 

world  it  is  that  you  don't  know  about — tell  me,  will 
you  promise  me  to  keep  the  peace  ontel  I've  succeeded 
or  failed — ontel  I've  made  good  or  ontel  I've  told  you 
I'm  a  failure? 

"Oh,  I  haven't  got  much,"  he  went  on  hurriedly. 
"I've  had  a  hard  enough  time  up  there — they  laughed 
at  me  at  first — I  was  ignorant  as  a  child — I  was  only 
a  savage,  a  wild  man,  ignorant  as  any  nigger  in  the 
world — and  wild — wild.  And  I  was  as  big  a  sinner 
as  any  in  the  world — I  had  a  lot  of  things  to  forget — 
me  trying  to  be  a  preacher.  Oh!  haven't  I  sinned! 
But  I  thought  if  I  would  come  down  here  and  get 
you  all  together  and  promise  you  that  if  you  didn't 
like  what  I  told  you,  you  could  kill  me  here — it  seemed 
to  me  it  would  part  way  make  up  for  the  heap  of 
sinning  I've  done  in  my  life,  young  as  I  am. 

"I'm  a  Joslin.  You're  Gannts  over  there — you  and 
your  kinpeople.  We're  fine  men,  both  families  of  us 
here.  We  can  kill  fifty  fine  men  here  in  three  min- 
utes. Or  we  can  build  a  school  up  yonder  on  the 
hill,  across  the  river,  inside  of  a  couple  of  years. 
Which  do  you  want  to  do  ?" 

He  stood  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  all  he  heard 
was  the  heavy,  half-panting  breathing  of  the  men  at 
his  right,  at  his  left.  There  was  not  the  shuffling  of 
a  foot,  not  the  movement  of  a  hand  on  either  side. 
The  eyes  of  each  faction  were  glued  upon  the  faces  of 
the  other.    A  tenser  scene  could  not  have  been;  nor 

151 


THE  WAY  OUT 

could  aught  but  starkest  courage  have  evoked  and 
dared  it. 

There  came  a  movement  upon  one  side  of  the  dimly 
lighted  room.  A  hundred  hands  went  backward,  a 
hundred  pairs  of  eyes  gleamed. 

It  was  old  Absalom  Gannt  who  had  moved.  But 
his  right  hand  went  up  above  his  shoulder,  above  his 
head.    And  it  was  empty! 

He  rose  slowly  now  to  his  full,  gnarled  height,  and 
stood,  his  right  hand,  empty,  still  above  his  head. 

"Wait,  boys!"  he  said.  He  turned  and  looked 
toward  his  right.  Silently  as  a  cat  in  his  motion,  Chan 
Bullock  had  also  risen.  But  as  he  saw  Absalom's  hand 
thrown  up  thus,  he  himself  paused.  The  two  faced 
one  another,  each  sternly  gazing  into  the  face  of  his 
foe. 

Joslin  himself  stood  motionless,  looking  from  the 
one  to  the  other,  his  own  hands  dropped  empty  at  his 
sides.  He  had  spoken.  But  he  knew  that  the  fate  of 
the  Cumberlands  rested  here  on  the  decision  of  these 
two  men. 

One  false  movement  on  the  part  of  anyone,  and 
the  closed  space  had  been  a  shambles.  But  Bullock 
with  a  quick  gesture  threw  his  own  right  hand  above 
his  head.  He  advanced  toward  old  Absalom,  the  lat- 
ter toward  him,  steadily,  grimly,  each  with  boring 
eyes  that  never  yet  had  "flickered."  Then  there  was 
heard  a  strong  and  calm  voice. 

152 


THE  CLANS 

"Fer's  I'm  concerned,"  said  old  Absalom  Gannt, 
"I'm  through  if  ye  fellers  air." 

"Suits  me,"  rejoined  Bullock. 

And  so  closed  the  meeting  at  the  Forks  of  the 
Kentucky. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


TIIE   CROSSROADS 


IF  ever  was  happy  wayfarer,  that  was  David  Jos- 
lin,  as  now  he  held  his  course  back  to  the  little 
Ohio  village  which  had  been  his  home  these  past 
two  years.  He  walked  eagerly,  hurrying  as  does  a 
man  who  realizes  that  there  is  much  to  be  done  with 
little  time  for  the  doing. 

He  had  no  staff  nor  scrip,  nor  needed  any  in  the 
course  of  his  journey  out  from  the  Cumberlands  to 
the  edge  of  the  great  plateau.  Here  he  found  the 
railway  leading  to  the  north,  and  followed  its  line  as 
any  common  tramp,  for  the  good  reason  that  he  had 
not  money  for  railway  fare.  Certain  gentry  of  the 
road  he  met,  but  they  neither  accepted  him  as  one 
of  the  guild,  nor  hindered  him  in  his  going,  for  they 
could  not  classify  this  man  who  walked  slightly 
stooped,  with  pale  face,  but  with  long  and  steady 
stride,  a  man  whose  clothing  betokened  no  luxury, 
but  who  still  had  something  about  him  which  did  not 
grade  him  as  one  of  the  hopeless  drifters  of  the 
world. 

At  a  little  town  along  the  road  another  kindly  rail- 

154 


THE  CROSSROADS 

way  conductor  lifted  him  far  along  his  northern  jour- 
ney, so  that  presently  he  was  coming  to  the  lower  edge 
of  what  might  have  been  called  the  North;  for  now 
he  approached  the  great  Ohio  River  and  its  scattered 
string  of  thriving  communities.  He  had  eaten  only 
when  he  found  the  means  to  pay  for  what  he  ate. 
Twice  he  found  it  necessary  to  stop  in  a  little  town 
and  work  for  a  period  of  a  day  or  so.  Rarely  did 
he  sleep  in  a  room.  He  was  still  a  man  of  the  wilder- 
ness. 

And  ne  was  happy,  was  David  Joslin.  For  the 
first  time,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  clouds  were  lifting 
from  his  soul.  Now,  it  seemed  to  him,  he  had  done 
something  to  offset  his  own  sin. 

Driving  his  worn  body  mercilessly,  he  was  footsore 
and  weary  when  at  length  he  arrived  in  one  of  the 
little  towns  on  the  banks  of  ;he  Ohio  River,  a  junc- 
tion point  where  all  the  north  and  south  railway  was 
crossed  by  one  of  the  greater  systems  running  east 
and  west,  a  place  of  some  five  or  six  thousand  inhab- 
itants—one of  those  many  communities  which  have 
their  own  pretensions  at  metropolitanism,  each  like 
to  a  thousand  others. 

Certain  features  of  these  centers  of  civilization  still 
continued  to  interest  Joslin,  a  man  of  such  extraor- 
dinary lack  of  opportunity.  He  stood  today,  there- 
fore, boylike,  reading  the  lettering  on  the  Strattonville 
billboards  which  announced  certain  attractions  in  the 

155 


THE  WAY  OUT 

theaters  and  cinema  houses  for  that  evening.  And  he 
saw  something  which  caused  him  to  flinch  as  though 
smitten. 

He  could  not  turn  away  from  the  great  letters  which 
he  saw,  two  feet  or  more,  widely  displayed. 

POLLY  PENDLETON!  POLLY  PENDLETON! 

HER  OWN   COMPANY 
DIRECT  FROM  HER  GREAT  BROADWAY  SUCCESS 

Polly  Pendleton!  Polly  Pendleton!  David  Joslin 
knew  not  how  many  times  the  name  stood  there  in 
print.  That  a  team  of  vaudeville  artists  had  grown 
into  a  certain  vogue  in  the  city;  that  this  vogue  had 
become,  for  one  of  the  performers,  a  sort  of  reputa- 
tion ;  that  a  concert  singer  had  grown  into  being  some- 
thing of  an  actress,  and  the  actress  into  some  sort  of 
a  star  heading  a  company  of  her  own;  that  this  star 
and  her  company — whether  for  reasons  of  success  or 
lack  of  success — had  left  the  city  to  tour  "the  prov- 
inces"— David  Joslin  knew  none  of  these  things.  All 
he  knew,  or  cared  to  know,  or  could  understand,  was 
}that  without  doubt  she  was  here!  She,  the  corpus 
delicti  of  his  sin ! 

As  the  criminal  will  return  to  the  very  place  of  his 
crime,  so  now  David  Joslin  found  his  feet  going  where 
he  did  not  list.  There  came  into  his  soul  a  great  reck- 
lessness.    He  forgot  the  occupation  of  his  last  two 

156 


THE  CROSSROADS 

years,  forgot  the  long  road  before  him.  Independence, 
prodigality,  seized  him  as  fully  as  it  might  any  gilded 
youth.  So,  since  prodigality  also  is  a  wholly  relative 
thing,  David  Joslin  bought  him  a  ticket  to  the  theater 
that  night,  repaired  to  a  near-by  restaurant,  and  ate 
what  was  to  him  the  most  expensive  meal  of  all  his 
life. 

No  longer  the  happy  wayfarer,  but  an  anxious, 
downcast  and  distraught  man,  on  his  soul  a  shadow, 
he  found  his  way  to  his  seat — his  first  time  in  any  ac- 
tual theater.  The  whirl  of  it  all,  the  light,  the  warmth, 
the  color,  the  music,  at  first  were  things  rather  of  tor- 
ture to  him.    Where  was  she  ? 

But  presently  she  came,  bowing,  smiling,  light- 
footed — it  was  she,  her  very  self!  Yes,  these  were 
her  eyes,  dark  and  large  as  ever.  Her  little  mouth, 
turned  up  a-corner,  was  as  sweet  as  ever.  Her  dark 
hair  curled  as  it  did  that  other  time.  Her  straight 
young  figure  was  the  same,  with  all  its  tender  curves. 
Above  all,  her  frank  smile,  her  compelling  air  of  com- 
radery,  were  just  the  same  as  then,  that  time,  two 
years  ago. 

She  had  the  same  little  habit  of  balancing  up  and 
down  on  her  toes,  impatient  for  the  music  to  give  her 
her  cue.  Her  little  chuckling  laugh  of  sheer  enjoy- 
ment in  herself  and  in  life  was  just  the  same.  She  was 
still  the  very  spirit  of  life  and  joy  she  had  been  yon- 
der, two  years  ago— two  centuries  ago  it  seemed  to 

157 


THE  WAY  OUT 

David  Joslin !  Then  he  had  been  another  man.  And 
now — he  was  again  that  other  man ! 

As  to  the  play,  so-called,  it  was  nothing  to  him,  and 
he  knew  not  how  long  it  endured.  The  concordance 
of  the  strings  and  brasses  meant  naught  to-night, 
though  otherwise  they  might  have  meant  much  indeed, 
new  as  they  were  to  his  acquaintance.  He  sat  mute, 
his  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  one  figure  upon  the  stage, 
the  sum  total  of  the  sensuous  appeal  lost  for  him  in 
the  charm  of  its  central  figure. 

And  then,  electric,  a  clash  in  the  music  touched  him 
to  the  marrow.  The  orchestra  leader  waved  his  baton. 
A  few  violins,  a  flute  or  two,  struck  into  the  opening 
bars  of  an  air  that  David  Joslin  knew ! 

Polly  Pendleton  was  at  that  moment  off-stage,  but 
now  ran  tripping  from  the  wings,  smiling,  shrugging 
up  her  scant  shoulder  strap  as  she  came.  Her  violin 
was  under  her  arm.  She  waved  a  hand  to  quiet  the 
enthusiasm,  and  played  with  the  orchestra  a  few  staves 
of  the  air. 

"You're  the  Only  Man  for  Me" — that  was  what 
Polly  Pendleton  would  play,  of  course.  Did  not  David 
Joslin  know? 

When  she  came  to  the  chorus,  she  stepped  down  to 
the  footlights  and  extended  her  two  round,  white  arms, 
bare  to  the  shoulder — her  slender,  up-curved  little  fin- 
gers reaching  almost  to  the  face  of  the  bald-headed 
leader  of  the  orchestra,  himself  of  a  family  of  eight. 

158 


THE  CROSSROADS 

To  him  she  sang,  her  eyes  dark  and  pleading,  her  little 
feet  tiptoeing,  her  voice  no  less  than  blandishment  it- 
self— "For  you  are  my  Baby — you  are  my  Baby — 
you're  the  only,  only,  only  man  for  me!"  And  then 
Polly  Pendleton  laughed  with  her  audience  at  the  jest 
of  it. 

She  ran  off-stage,  but  must  come  back  again,  to  be 
sure.  This  time  she  raised  her  hands  and  her  eyes  to 
a  solid-looking  citizen,  who  sat  in  a  proscenium  box — 
a  banker  and  a  leading  figure  of  the  town,  it  chanced, 
well  known  to  all  in  the  audience.  To  him  also,  plead- 
ingly, bewitchingly,  she  asserted,  "You're  the  only, 
only,  only  man  for  me !" 

And  so  jn  time  Polly  Pendleton  hitched  up  her 
shoulder-strap  once  more,  and  ran  off  in  her  final 
exit 

David  Joslin  found  himself,  slightly  reeling,  passing 
out  to  the  open  air  with  the  others.  Some  men 
whistled,  others  bore  copies  of  a  song,  which  they  had 
purchased  from  the  ushers  at  the  door.  He  never 
could  remember  how  or  why  he  went  to  the  principal 
hotel.  Certainly  it  was  not  to  find  quarters  for  himself. 
Aimlessly  he  walked  down  the  cross  hall  of  the  lobby 
to  another  entrance ;  and  so  sheer  accident  favored  him. 

He  knew  that  the  rustle  of  skirts  at  the  door  of  the 
"ladies'  parlor"  meant  the  presence  of  the  woman  he 
sought — knew  it  by  some  strange  super-sense  that  came 
to  him.    A  moment  later  Polly  Pendleton  herself  ap- 

159 


THE  WAY  OUT 

peared  at  the  door,  looking  across  the  hall  to  the  open 
door  of  the  cafe  upon  the  other  side. 

"All  right,  Jimmy,"  she  called  out  to  someone  be- 
yond,  invisible  to  Joslin.     'Til  be  in   right  away. 
Order  me  a  milk-fed,  won't  you,  and  a  bottle  of  pale — 
,with  you  in  just  a  minute." 

i  She  stepped  back  into  the  parlor.  Without  an- 
nouncement, Joslin  followed  on  in,  and  so  once  more 
found  himself  face  to  face  with  her. 

She  stepped  back,  startled,  surprised,  frightened  al- 
most. "Oh!"  she  exclaimed;  and  then  frowned.  "I 
didn't  ask  for  anyone.  Who  are  you?"  she  de- 
manded. 

Then  with  a  sudden  revelation  she  remembered. 
Yes,  pale  and  hot-eyed  as  when  she  had  seen  him  last ; 
it  was  the  same  man,  the  wild  man  from  the  moun- 
tains ! 

She  could  not  quite  evade  him.  "What  do  you 
want?    How  did  you  get  in  here?"  she  gasped. 

He  did  not  answer  at  first,  and  she  herself,  not 
knowing  what  manner  of  scene  might  be  expected, 
resourcefully  took  him  by  the  sleeve  and  led  him  far 
over  to  the  further  corner,  where  a  sofa  afforded  seats 
for  two.  She  pushed  him  down  into  one  end  of  it,  and 
moved  as  far  as  possible  into  the  other. 

"You  don't  remember  me?"  His  voice  was  broken 
and  hoarse.    She  nodded. 

"Don't  talk  so  loud.     They'll  hear  us." 
160 


THE  CROSSROADS 

He  seemed  unconscious  of  her  warning. 

"Why  are  you  here?"  he  demanded,  as  though  she 
owed  him  an  explanation. 

"Haven't  you  seen?  We're  playing  here  to-night. 
This  one-night  business  is  getting  my  goat/' 

David  Joslin  stared  at  her.  "I  know — I  saw  it  all. 
Sometimes  a  man's  hard  to  manage."  His  voice  was 
savage. 

"That's  the  truth !"  said  Polly  Pendleton.  "I'm  not 
big  enough  to  throw  you  out,  and  I  don't  like  to  call 
the  porter,  but  I've  got  to  have  my  supper  before  long. 
Have  you  had  yours?" 

"Yes.  It  cost  me  six  bits.  That's  the  mostest  I  ever 
spent  for  one  meal  in  all  my  life." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Polly  wistfully.  "I  wish  I  could 
get  mine  down  to  that  scale!  Sometimes  it's — well, 
rather  more." 

"It  left  me  thirty-five  cents,"  said  David  Joslin,  smil- 
ing bitterly. 

"Huh!  That's  just  about  what  you  had  the  last 
time  you  saw  me.  Is  it  the  same  thirty-five  cents  you 
had  then?" 

Again  she  laughed,  and  then  rippled  out  in  her  ir- 
repressible generosity,  her  sympathy.  "Poor  chap!" 
said  she.  "Haven't  you  got  ahead  any  farther  than 
that  in  two  years?"  Polly  Pendleton  could  not  see 
any  suffering  unmoved.    She  herself  had  lived. 

"It's  odd,"  she  said,  something  of  his  old  story  com- 
161 


THE  WAY  OUT 

ing  back  to  her.  "You  must  be  thirty-five  or  six, 
aren't  you? — or  maybe  forty?" 

"Not  yet  quite  thirty,"  said  he. 

"And  you  said  you  were  married  ?" 

"I  was — once." 

"Then  what  are  you  doing  here?  What  were  you 
doing  there  in  my  apartments  in  New  York?  Don't 
you  ever  stop  to  think  ?" 

"I've  stopped  to  think  about  everything  in  my  life 
except  this.  But  now  all  that's  done.  I'm  not  going 
back  to  school  any  more."  He  looked  directly  at  her 
now. 

"Why?  What  do  you  mean?  Why  do  you  say 
that?  You  talk  foolish!  Why,  listen,  where  do  you 
get  this  sort  of  stuff,  anyhow?  What  are  you  mak- 
ing me  out  to  be?  Have  I  ever  asked  anything  of 
you,  I'd  like  to  know?  What  do  I  owe  you,  or  you 
owe  me?    I  don't  get  you,  neighbor." 

"No,  I  reckon  not,"  said  David  Joslin,  still  staring 
at  her  steadily  from  his  end  of  the  sofa  in  the  dim 
light.  "I  don't  reckon  you  do.  I  don't  reckon  a  woman 
like  you  can  understand  a  man  like  me." 

"Am  I  so  bad,  then  ?  God !  I  wish  there  wasn't  a 
man  in  all  the  world,  that's  all — I'm  sick  of  them !  I've 
got  to  make  a  living,  haven't  I  ?  Well,  it's  jolly  hard 
business  sometimes  to  do  that.  Why,  listen — it's  only 
an  angel,  and  a  good  one,  that's  kept  us  on  our  feet. 
I'm  wearing  all  my  old  clothes  and  hats  and  things. 

162 


THE   CROSSROADS 

And  I  don't  know  if  I  can  go  back  to  Broadway  again. 
You  don't  have  all  the  trouble  in  the  world." 

"An  angel?"  said  David  Joslin,  not  in  the  least 
understanding  her,  more  than  she  had  him  in  his  last 
remark,  which  she  thought  so  slighting  to  herself. 
"Yes,  I  reckon  it  was  an  angel  brought  you  to  me.  I 
was  walking  through  here,  going  back  to  my  school, 
and  here  I  find  you!  It  was  as  though  an  angel  of 
heaven  had  brought  us  two  together.     What  for?" 

"You  can  search  me!"  said  Polly  Pendleton.  "I 
haven't  got  the  answer.  All  sorts  of  things  happen  in 
this  game,  of  course,  but  I'm  free  to  say  I  wasn't  look- 
ing for  you  to-night — and  to  tell  the  truth" — she  rip- 
pled out  in  laughter  again — "I  don't  know  what  to  do 
with  you  now  I've  got  you.  Won't  you  please  go 
away  ?    I'm  getting  pretty  hungry,  man !" 

"Miss  Pendleton,"  said  David  Joslin,  "that's  not 
the  way  to  tteat  me." 

Silence  fell  between  them.  Polly  Pendleton,  hurt 
and  grieved  still  over  the  sting  of  his  earlier  words — 
which  he  had  spoken  only  in  condemnation  of  himself, 
not  her,  began  to  tremble  about  her  lips. 

She  heard  his  low,  vibrant  voice  go  on.  "I  couldn't 
bear  to  see  you  reach  out  your  hands  to  those  men  there 
to-night.  You  touched  me,  once!  For  sake  of  that, 
I'm  quitting  my  school." 

"It  was  only  in  a  song!"  she  broke  out.  "I've  done 
that  to  a  thousand  men,  I  expect,  and  I  didn't  care  a 

163 


THE  WAY   OUT 

cent  for  any  one  of  them.  It's  in  the  game — it's  part 
of  my  way  of  making  a  living.    I've  got  to  live/* 

She  laughed  now  with  half  a  sob.  "There  can't  be 
in  all  the  world  any  one  man  for  me,  I  suppose — that's 
the  price  we  have  to  pay,  who  do  this  sort  of  thing." 

"I  don't  understand  you  at  all." 

"Well,  I  don't— I  won't— there  isn't "  replied 

Polly  somewhat  incoherently.  "Listen,  man !  You've 
got  to  stop  this!  I  can't  stand  it.  This  means  too 
much  to  you.  You've  taken  it  all  in  earnest  when  there 
wasn't  anything  to  it  but  a  joke — a  game — a  business. 
And  besides — I  told  you " 

"What  do  you  mean  that  you  told  me?" 

"I  told  you — that — that  I  wasn't  good!  Do  you 
think  that's  easy  for  me  to  say  ?" 

"A  woman  as  beautiful  as  you  could  not  be  anything 
but  good." 

"Don't !  I  can't  stand  this — I  told  you  once  before 
I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"How  can  I  help  it?  I  told  you  a  man  is  hard  to 
manage." 

"You're  the  hardest  to  manage  I  ever  saw.  What 
can  I  do  with  you?  I  want  to  be  as  good  a  scout  as 
I  can — I  don't  really  want  to  take  money  away  from 
blind  babies,  nor  love'n  affection  from  idiot  Johnnies. 
I  don't  want  you  at  all,  and  you  mustn't  want  anything 
to  do  with  me  at  all.  Do  you  suppose  it's  easy  for 
me  to  say  that?    Why  don't  I  let  you  make  a  fool  of 

164 


THE  CROSSROADS 

yourself  the  way  they  all  do?  Search  me — I  don't 
know !  Listen — have  you  ever  doped  this  thing  out  all 
the  way  down  the  line?  What's  in  your  mind — what 
would  you  like  to  do? — what  would  you  like  to  have 
me  do?" 

"I  never  thought  it  out.  I — I  don't  know.  I  don't 
understand  this  at  all.  I  don't  know  why  I  came  here 
to-night,  to  see  you  again." 

"Well,  let's  suppose  now  that  I  was  a  single  woman, 
and  you  were  a  single  man.  It  isn't  true  in  your  case, 
and  we  won't  say  anything  about  mine.  Suppose  we 
were  both  free  to  do  as  we  liked?  How  far  do  you 
suppose,  my  friend,  that  thirty-five  cents  would  go  in 
backing  a  theatrical  company  like  this,  that  carries 
thirty-eight  performers,  its  own  sets  and  its  own 
brass?" 

Polly  Pendleton,  dependable  always  to  do  the  unex- 
pected, was  not  laughing  now,  but  half  sobbing,  and 
wiping  her  eyes  on  the  corner  of  her  skirt. 

"I  wish't  you  wouldn't  do  that.  Please  don't!"  he 
exclaimed.    "I  can't  tell  you  how  it  hurts  me." 

"Well,  it's  you  that's  done  it,"  she  flared  at  him  over 
the  corner  of  her  ruffles,  forgetting  a  half  limb  ex- 
posed. "Did  I  ask  you  to  come  here?  Is  it  the  part 
of  a  real  man  to  make  it  harder  for  a  fellow  like  me, 
that's  trying  to  get  on  in  the  world?" 

"I  don't  reckon  I've  thought  of  that,"  said  David 
Joslin  with  sudden  contrition.     "I  reckon  I  was  just 


THE  WAY  OUT 

thinking  of  my  own  self.  I  know  the  place  in  my  book 
that  covers  that.    It's  about  Adam " 

"Never  mind  about  Adam!"  said  Polly  Pendleton. 
"Don't  I  know !  If  you  were  just  a  case  of  an  average 
Johnnie  that  had  money  and  no  brains,  I'd  maybe  take 
you  on  and  jolly  well  separate  you.  Such  things  have 
happened.  But  here  you  are  with  no  money  and  a  lot 
of  brains.  Excuse  me,  my  friend,  but  you  don't  seem 
to  just  qualify  for  running  a  theatrical  company.  Be- 
sides— I  like  you  a  lot.  I  told  you  that  before.  But 
when  I  sing,  'You're  the  only  man  for  me,'  that's  what 
I  don't  mean — what  I  never  mean.  Can't  you  under- 
stand that?    I  wish  you'd  never  seen  me." 

"I  didn't  know  there  could  be  a  woman  like  you  in 
all  the  world — I  didn't  know  what  a  woman  really 
meant." 

"It'd  be  fine  to  have  a  man  really  believe  in  you ;" 
half  sobbing  now.  "It'd  be  mighty  fine  to  listen  to 
that  line  of  talk,  even  if  you  couldn't  believe  in  it." 

Polly  Pendleton  shrank  back  into  her  corner  of  the 
sofa,  and  wrung  her  little  white  hands  together;  but 
finally  she  suddenly  turned  to  him  once  more,  one  knee 
bent,  her  foot  under  her,  as  she  faced  him  on  the  sofa 
at  last 

"There  may  be  women  who  could  break  a  man  and 
throw  away  the  pieces  for  the  fun  of  it.  Nix  on  the 
vamp  for  little  Polly.  Oh,  dear !  I  don't  want  to  talk. 
I'm  tired.     What  made  you  come  here  at  all?     The 

166 


THE  CROSSROADS 

trouble  with  you  is,  you  don't  know  what  an  angel 
face  is.  You  think  I'm  the  way  I  look.  I'm  not!" 
Polly  was  sobbing  freely  now  into  the  corner  of  her 
skirt.  "I'm  not,  I  tell  you!  Don't  you  know — and 
I'd  rather  have  told  that  to  anybody  in  all  the  world 
than  you — you're  so  damned  honest !" 

He  made  no  answer  at  all,  and  she  went  on. 
"You've  been  such  a  boob  that  you  haven't  done 
anything  wrong.  You've  got  your  education  ahead  of 
you.  I'm  twenty-six  years  old,  and  I  know  more  than 
you  will  when  you're  a  hundred  and  twenty-six.  You 
don't  need  to  have  a  house  fall  on  you,  do  you  ?  Come 
now !  I  don't" — and  here,  in  spite  of  all,  she  laughed 
through  her  unwilling  tears — "I  don't  want  your  little 
old  thirty-five  cents  at  all!  Take  it  and  go  on,  and 
save  the  country,  friend." 

David  Joslin  sat   for  a  long  time.     "Sometimes 
things  are  hard  to  figure  out,"  said  he  at  last. 

"Yes !"  said  Polly  Pendleton  in  a  low  voice.    "Don't 
I  know?" 

There  was  no  answer  save  his  white-knuckled  hands. 
After  a  time  she  hitched  up  the  other  foot  on  the 
sofa,  and  sat,  her  arms  about  her  knees,  staring  at  him 
that  way,  her  eyes  gleaming  in  the  dim  light,  impulsive 
still  as  a  child  herself — as  indeed  she  was  always  to 
remain. 

"Listen !"  said  she.    "I've  got  an  idea.    Come  now 
— you  seem  rather  like  a  priest  to  me — it  didn't  seem 

167 


THE  WAY  OUT 

wrong  for  me  to  tell  you  things.     Will  you  make  a 
trade,  honor  bright  ?" 

"If  I  gave  you  my  word,"  said  David  Joslin 
soberly,  "I'd  keep  it." 

"If  you'll  promise  to  go  on  and  do  what  you  said 
you'd  do — your  education — your  college — I'll  agree  to 
quit  this  business  in  about  two  months,  and  when  I  do 
I'll  go  into  the  Red  Cross." 

He  did  not  answer  her  at  all.  Unconsciously,  after 
how  long  a  time  neither  of  them  could  have  told,  they 
both  had  arisen.  He  stood  before  her,  motionless,  she 
herself  slightly  swaying.  Impulsively,  she  extended 
her  hands  towards  him  in  the  twilight  of  the  room. 

"I  know  you!"  said  she.  "I  know  what  you  want 
You  want  to  kiss  me,  don't  you  ?"  She  looked  at  him 
gravely. 

He  could  not  answer.  He  made  no  motion.  But 
Polly  Pendleton  knew  now  that  if  any  salutation  came 
from  this  man  it  would  be  from  a  different  man  than 
the  one  who  had  entered  this  room  a  half-hour  pre- 
vious. In  short,  she  knew,  whether  or  not  he  knew  it, 
that  David  Joslin  was  saved. 

"Among  so  many "  began  Polly  Pendleton,  try- 
ing to  laugh  and  half  sobbing.    "Oh,  well " 

He  never  knew  how  or  when  he  found  the  street 

Across  the  hall  appeared  the  red  and  irate  face  of 
a  gentleman  who,  apparently,  had  long  been  wait- 
ing. 

168 


THE  CROSSROADS 

"Where  on  earth  have  you  been,  kid  ?"  he  demanded 
querulously.    "Everything's  getting  cold." 

"Oh,  have  a  heart,  old  dear,"  said  Polly  Pendleton, 
dabbing  indefinitely  at  her  countenance  with  a  hand- 
kerchief.   "I  had  to  powder  my  nose,  didn't  I  ?" 


CHAPTER  XV 


THE    ORIGINAL   SIN 


AS  Joslin  wandered  along  a  street  unknown  to 
him,  lighted  by  flickering  arc  lights,  he  was 
not  conscious  of  the  exercise  of  any  of  his 
faculties,  but  a  faint,  sweetish  smell  came  to  him,  a 
thing  familiar  in  its  way.  It  was  the  smell  of  distilled 
liquors.  He  looked  up,  and  saw  by  the  sign  above  the 
door  that  here  one  by  the  name  of  John  Moran  sold 
aged  whiskeys  bonded  in  the  wood. 

Inside,  the  room  was  still  light,  though  now  the 
proprietor  was  beginning  to  put  away  his  bottles  for 
the  night,  it  being  past  midnight.  Joslin  turned  in  at 
the  door  without  any  definite  purpose  in  his  mind. 
The  proprietor  looked  at  him  inquiringly,  standing  at 
attention  behind  the  bar.  Joslin  swayed  slightly  as  he 
approached,  and  placed  his  last  two  coins  upon  the 
counter.  The  bar  man  was  of  the  very  plausible  be- 
lief that  his  customer  was  already  the  worse  for 
liquor. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "that's  all  the  money  I  have.  I  want 
to  rest  here  to-night  if  I  may.  I  want  to  give  you  the 
dime,  and  I  want  you  to  let  me  keep  this  quarter." 

170 


THE    ORIGINAL    SIN 

"I'm  just  closing  up,"  began  the  man,  pushing  back 
his  bottles  upon  the  shelf. 

Joslin  looked  at  him  straight  as  he  replied : 

"I  know,  but  I'm  alone  in  this  town,  and  I've  no 
place  to  lay  my  head.  I'm  in  trouble.  Perhaps  you 
know  what  trouble  means  ?" 

The  man  looked  at  him  curiously,  accustomed  as  he 
was  to  all  the  vagaries  of  alcohol. 

"Have  one  on  the  house,"  said  he  at  length,  and 
pushed  the  bottle  once  more  toward  his  customer. 

Joslin  picked  up  the  flask  with  trembling  hand,  and 
poured  out  a  full  drink  into  the  glass.  He  raised  it 
to  his  lips,  but  did  not  drink. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  find  I  do  not  need  to  drink." 

The  proprietor  was  disposed  to  be  irritable.  "On 
your  way,  neighbor,"  said  he.  "This  is  a  saloon,  and 
we  sell  liquor  here." 

Joslin  perhaps  did  not  fully  understand  all  that  he 
said.  Once  more  he  pushed  both  the  coins  back  across 
the  bar  top.  "Please,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "I'm  very 
tired.  I  come  to  you  as  to  one  who  will  aid  the  needy. 
Let  me  sit  to-night  in  that  chair  by  the  little  table 
yonder.  Put  the  glass  on  the  table  by  me.  In  the 
morning  I'll  be  here  if  the  liquor  in  the  glass  has  not 
been  tasted — and  then  I  can  go  on  my  way,  as  you  say. 
If  the  liquor  is  gone,  you  will  have  had  pay  for  it — 
take  this  larger  coin — but  I  will  not  be  here  then. 

"I'd  like  to  sit  here  and  read,  that's  all,"  he  added 
171 


THE  WAY  OUT 

after  a  while,  since  the  other  made  no  reply.  "I  have 
no  other  place  to  go." 

"Who  are  you,  bo?"  asked  the  saloon-keeper  curi- 
ously. His  education  in  human  nature  did  not  often 
lead  him  astray.  He  knew  now  this  was  no  ordinary 
drunk,  and  no  ordinary  man.  "What's  your  line?" 
he  asked  again. 

"I'm  a  preacher,  sir,"  replied  Joslin,  "or  I  was  to 
have  been — till  to-night." 

The  barkeeper  laughed  shortly.  "Well,  I  believe 
you'd  fight  fair,"  said  he.  And  then  quickly,  "Say,  I'll 
take  a  chance  with  you !  I'll  leave  you  here  to-night. 
I  believe  you're  up  against  it.  You  can  drink  yourself 
crazy,  or  steal  all  the  stock  if  you  like.  Or  you  can 
do  as  you  say — stay  here  until  I  come  back  in  the 
morning." 

Joslin  looked  at  him,  still  swaying  slightly,  his  hands 
upon  the  polished  wood,  steadying  himself. 

"To  some  men  I'd  say,  Take  a  drink  and  pull  to- 
gether,' but  with  you  I  won't,"  said  the  proprietor. 
"Fight  it  out.  It's  a  man's  game,  friend.  By  morn- 
ing you'll  know  whether  you're  going  up  or  down." 

"And  you'll  accept  that  risk  with  a  stranger?"  said 
Joslin. 

"You've  got  the  risk — this  night  will  have  bigger 
chances  in  it  for  you  than  for  me!  Two  or  three 
drinks  and  I  might  find  you  on  the  floor  in  the  morn- 
ing.    None  at  all,  and  I  may  find  you  sitting  there. 

172 


THE    ORIGINAL    SIN 

Risk's  yours,  not  mine.  If  that's  the  way  you  want 
it 

"Well,  fly  to  it,  friend,"  he  concluded,  chuckling 
grimly.  "Don't  ask  it  again — I  don't  know  what  I 
might  do." 

"No,"  said  Joslin,  "I  shall  never  have  another  night 
like  this.  Let  me  sit  here  and  read  to-night.  I  will 
thank  you  a\-ways." 

"You're  a  mountain  man,"  said  the  saloon-keeper 
suddenly,  noticing  the  accent  on  the  last  syllable. 

Joslin  nodded. 

"They're  hardy,  and  sometimes  they  can  keep  away 
from  liquor.    Well,  luck  to  you." 

He  pulled  down  the  apron  screening  the  shelves  of 
bottles,  and  coming  around  the  end  of  the  bar  stood 
for  a  moment  looking  at  his  visitor.  Joslin  was  sitting 
now  at  the  table,  the  glass  of  liquor  close  at  hand. 

"If  you're  going  to  read,"  said  he,  "you'll  have  to 
have  a  light — I'll  leave  this  one  burning  for  you."  A 
moment  later  he  had  passed  out  of  his  own  door, 
which  he  left  unlocked.  Joslin  felt  for  him  a  strange 
kinship,  so  that  greater  loneliness  fell  on  him  when  he 
had  left. 

The  reek  of  liquor  was  still  in  the  air,  the  sawdust 
itself  was  redolent  of  it.  But  none  of  this  now  stirred 
the  blood  of  David  Joslin.  Two  or  three  times  he 
raised  the  half-full  glass  in  front  of  him  level  with 
his  eye — and  placed  it  back  again  untasted  on  the 

173 


THE  WAY  OUT 

table.  At  last,  quietly,  pale,  he  took  from  his  coat 
pocket  a  heavy  volume,  which  often  he  had  carried 
there. 

There  were  certain  worn  places  where  the  book  fell 
open  readily.    Familiar  words  stared  up  at  him. 

The  solitary  reader,  trained  to  literal  interpretations, 
pondered  what  he  read.  He  endeavored  to  restore  the 
vision  of  the  Garden,  the  first  home  of  Man.  He 
undertook  to  conceive  the  Temptation,  to  picture  the 
Serpent  himself;  indeed,  tried  to  think  as  John  Calvin 
thought  when  he  wrote  his  words : 


But,  since  it  could  not  have  been  a  trivial  offense,  but 
must  have  been  a  detestable  crime,  that  was  so  severely 
punished  by  God,  we  must  consider  the  nature  of  Adam's 
sin,  which  kindled  the  dreadful  flame  of  divine  wrath 
against  the  whole  human  race. 

Augustine  properly  observes,  that  pride  was  the  first 
of  all  evils.  But  we  may  obtain  a  more  complete  defi- 
nition from  the  nature  of  the  temptation  as  described 
by  Moses.  For  as  the  Woman,  by  the  subtlety  of  the 
Serpent,  was  seduced  to  discredit  the  word  of  God,  it  is 
evident  that  the  fall  commenced  in  disobedience.  This 
is  also  confirmed  by  Paul,  who  states  that  all  men  were 
ruined  by  the  disobedience  of  one. 

With  propriety,  therefore,  Bernard  teaches  that  the 
gate  of  salvation  is  opened  to  us,  when  in  the  present 
day  we  receive  the  Gospel  with  our  ears,  as  death  was 
once  admitted  at  the  same  doors  when  they  lay  open  to 
Satan. 

174 


THE    ORIGINAL    SIN 

Augustine  ?  Bernard  ?  Who  were  they  ?  Dust  and 
forgotten  for  the  most  part.  But  after  them  and  be- 
fore them  men  had  lived,  human  beings,  hoping,  as- 
piring, falling,  sinning.  David  Joslin,  mountaineer, 
turned  once  more  to  the  pages  of  the  old  dogmatist. 


This  is  that  hereditary  corruption  which  the  fathers 
called  original  sin;  meaning  by  sin,  the  depravation  of  a 
nature  previously  good  and  pure;  on  which  subject  they 
had  much  contention.  Yet  this  timidity  could  not  pre- 
vent Pelagius  from  arising,  who  profanely  pretended  that 
the  sin  of  Adam  only  ruined  himself,  and  did  not  injure 
his  descendants.  But  the  temerity  of  the  Pelagians  and 
Celestians  will  not  appear  surprising  to  him  whc  per- 
ceives from  the  writings  of  Augustine  what  a  want  of 
modesty  they  discover  in  everything  else. 

Every  descendant  from  the  impure  source  is  born  in- 
fected with  the  contagion  of  sin ;  and  even  before  we 
behold  the  light  of  life,  we  are  in  the  sight  of  God  defiled 
and  polluted.  For  "who  can  bring  a  clean  thing  out  of 
an  unclean  ?"    The  Book  of  Job  tells  us,  "Not  one." 

We  have  heard  that  the  impurity  of  the  parents  is  so 
transmitted  to  the  children  that  all,  without  a  single  ex- 
ception, are  polluted  as  soon  as  they  exist.  But  we  shall 
not  find  the  origin  of  this  pollution,  unless  we  ascend  to 
the  first  parent  of  us  all,  as  to  the  fountain  which  sends 
forth  all  the  streams.  Thus  it  is  certain  that  Adam  was 
not  only  the  progenitor,  but  as  it  were  the  root  of  man- 
kind, and  therefore,  that  all  the  race  were  necessarily 
vitiated  in  his  corruption.  What  cavil  will  the  Pelagians 
raise  here? 

175 


THE  WAY  OUT 

And  then  John  Calvin  went  on  to  tell  David  Joslin, 
sitting  l.ere  in  the  saloon  of  John  Moran,  what  sin 
was: 

Wherefore,  Augustine,  though  he  frequently  calls  it 
the  sin  of  another,  the  more  clearly  to  indicate  its  trans- 
mission to  us  by  propagation,  yet,  at  the  same  time,  also 
asserts  it  properly  to  belong  to  every  individual.  And 
the  apostle  himself  expressly  declares,  that  "death  has 
therefore  passed  upon  all  men,  for  that  all  have  sinned ;" 
that  is,  have  been  involved  in  original  sin,  and  defiled  with 
its  blemishes.  And  therefore  infants  themselves,  as  they 
bring  their  condemnation  into  the  world  with  them,  are 
rendered  obnoxious  to  punishment  by  their  own  sinful- 
ness, not  by  the  sinfulness  of  another.  For  though  they 
have  not  yet  produced  the  fruits  of  their  iniquity,  yet 
they  have  the  seed  of  it  within  them. 

When  arguing  respecting  corrupt  nature,  Paul  not  only 
condemns  the  inordinate  motions  of  the  appetites,  but 
principally  insists  on  the  blindness  of  the  mind  and  the 
depravity  of  the  heart;  and  the  third  chapter  of  his 
Epistle  to  the  Romans  is  nothing  but  a  description  of 
original  sin. 

We  say,  therefore,  that  man  is  corrupted  by  a  natural 
depravity.  Thus  vanishes  the  foolish  and  nugatory  sys- 
tem of  the  Manichaeans  who,  having  imagined  in  man  a 
substantial  wickedness,  presumed  to  invent  for  him  a 
new  Creator,  that  they  might  not  appear  to  assign  the 
cause  and  origin  of  evil  to  a  righteous  God. 

The  dour  words  of  the  savage  old  doctrinaire  looked 
up  familiarly  to  David  Joslin.    More  than  once  alone 

176 


THE   ORIGINAL   SIN 

he  had  pondered  upon  the  cavilings  of  the  Pelagians, 
the  deeds  of  the  Manichxeans,  the  Celestians,  and  oth- 
ers who  had  fallen  under  the  invectives  of  this  stern 
leader  of  the  past.  Once  they  had  seemed  adequate 
to  him.  That  very  day  they  would  have  seemed  ade- 
quate to  him.    But  not  tonight. 

Two  years  ago  he  had  closed  the  pages  of  his  own 
past.  Now  he  knew  that  he  was  closing  the  book  upon 
yet  another  stage  of  his  own  development.  Fellow- 
ship, understanding,  sympathy,  the  common  human 
struggles!  From  John  Calvin's  interpretation  David 
Joslin  turned  to  an  interpretation  of  his  own.  He  read 
from  larger  pages. 

The  night  passed  at  length.  Dawn  grayed  the  dull 
windows  of  the  saloon  front,  opaqued  that  passers-by 
might  not  see  what  went  on  within.  But  this  dull 
dawn  was  the  opening  of  a  new  horizon  to  David  Jos- 
lin. He  saw  a  wider  world.  He  had  learned  that 
dogma  is  not  life. 

He  heard  the  door  open.  The  owner  of  the  place 
entered,  his  usually  impassive  face  curiously  turned 
toward  the  interior.  Joslin  walked  fonvard  to  meet 
him,  on  his  face  now  at  least  the  semblance  of  a  smile. 
John  Moran  himself  smiled,  as  he  looked  and  saw  the 
untouched  glass  upon  the  table. 

"Well,  friend,  you've  won,"  said  he.  "Here's  your 
quarter  back  again." 

Joslin  felt  in  his  hand  the  weight  of  a  gold  piece,  but 
177 


THE  WAY  OUT 

he  put  it  back,  his  lip  somewhat  trembling.  "I  thank 
you,"  said  he,  "but  I  can't  take  it." 

"Don't  you  need  it?" 

"Yes.  But  I'll  have  to  finish  my  own  way,  I  reckon," 
said  David  Joslin.  "You  see,  I've  been  going  to  school 
up  North  here.  But  now  I've  concluded  not  to  go  there 
any  more.    No— I  don't  need  it." 

He  smiled  now,  as  he  extended  his  hand  with  that 
quality  upon  his  face  which  brought  friends  to  him  so 
quickly,  and  held  them  so  staunchly. 

"Good-by,"  said  he,  clasping  his  brother's  hand  in 
his  own  large  one,  "I  thank  you  more  than  I  can  tell 
you.  I'm  better  than  when  I  came  in  here  last  night. 
You've  been  a  good  Samaritan." 

And  so  David  Joslin  passed  out  into  a  larger  world 
and  a  wider  dawn. 


book  in 


CHAPTER  XVI 


THE   CITY   ON   THE   HILL 


IN  the  Cumberlands,  at  the  Forks  of  the  Kentucky 
life  went  on  as  it  had  from  time  immemorial. 
There  were  few  more  houses  than  there  had  been 
a  hundred  years  ago,  no  more  roads,  little  more  of  civi- 
lization. But  one  morning,  while  yet  the  dawn  was 
young,  a  man  standing  contemplatively  on  the  stoop 
of  his  house,  hands  in  pockets,  looked  idly  up  to  the 
summit  of  the  tall  hill,  which  dominated  the  little  town, 
and  the  gaze  of  this  man  lingered.  There  seemed  to 
be  someone  up  there,  so  far  away  that  he  could  not  be 
identified. 

A  certain  mild  interest  arose  in  the  observer's  mind. 
The  figure  yonder  moved  about  slowly,  rising  and 
stooping  curiously.  Now  and  again  it  disappeared  be- 
hind the  crown  of  the  hill.  Then  it  would  return, 
slowly,  stooped  as  though  carrying  some  heavy  bur- 
den, would  drop  that  burden  and  start  back  again. 

It  was  Old  Granny  Williams  who  took  down  the 
first  authentic  word  regarding  the  strange  work  of 
the  man  on  the  hilltop— she  had  gone  up  to  take  him 
something  to  eat. 

181 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Hit's  Davy!"  said  she.  "He's  done  come  back 
home !  He's  a-startin'  of  his  collidge.  He  war  a-layin' 
the  stones  in  rows,  this  way  and  that.  He  done  dug  a 
long  sort  of  trench,  like,  whar  the  ground  was  level, 
up  on  top  of  the  hill.  He  shore  air  a-goin*  to  build 
something." 

Some  scoffed  at  all  this.  Others  looked  up  still  more 
curiously  all  that  day.  Word  passed  that  David  Jos- 
lin  had  come  back  home  to  stay.  The  next  day,  at 
about  ten  in  the  morning,  as  David  Joslin  dropped  in 
its  place  a  heavy  slab  of  sandstone,  which  he  had  car- 
ried in  his  hands  from  his  quarry  on  the  hillside, 
he  looked  up  to  see  the  cause  of  a  shadow  on  the 
ground. 

"Good  morning,  Absalom,"  said  he  quietly. 

Absalom  Gannt  said  nothing  at  first,  but  laid  off  his 
coat. 

"Damn  me,  Davy!"  said  he,  "Hit  hain't  nuwer 
goin'  to  be  said  that  no  Joslin  could  do  more'n  a 
Gannt.    Ye  a-workin'  up  here  all  alone !" 

The  grizzled  old  man  stood  for  a  time,  hands  on 
hips,  and  looked  about  him. 

"What's  that  blood  on  that  rock  yander?"  he  asked, 
pointing  to  a  stain  on  the  slabs  at  the  corner. 

"I  mashed  my  hand  between  a  couple  of  rocks,"  said 
David.  He  held  up  his  hand.  The  edge  of  the  palm, 
livid  and  dark  blue,  had  been  bruised  off  in  a  large 
half -open  wound,  from  which  the  blood  still  oozed 

182 


THE  CITY  ON  THE  HILL 

slowly.    "It's  nothing/'  said  he.    "I  swore — before  I 
thought     It'll  be  all  right. 

"I  haven't  any  tool  except  this  old  piece  of  crow- 
bar," he  went  on.  "Dan  Bagsley,  down  at  the  shop, 
put  a  edge  on  this  iron.  I  managed  to  quarry  some 
rock  with  it  on  the  face  of  the  hill  yonder." 

"Well,  I'll  be  damned !"  remarked  Absalom  quietly, 
and,  having  so  expressed  himself,  he  did  not  fall  to 
work,  but  set  off  down  the  hill  without  further  com- 
ment 

Joslin  sat  down  to  rest  on  the  corner  stone,  which, 
with  his  own  hands,  he  had  laid.  The  blood  oozing 
from  his  hand  still  further  stained  the  rock,  the  color 
spreading  slowly  as  he  sat.  Under  the  corner  stone 
lay  something  else  of  the  life  of  David  Joslin. 

He  had  buried  here  the  old  book  of  John  Calvin,  out- 
lived of  late,  since  he  had  found  that  religion  and 
democracy,  and,  indeed,  hope  itself,  are  naught  but 
human  sympathy  and  human  understanding.  Between 
the  leaves  of  the  fierce  old  pragmatist's  volume  there 
lay  the  photograph  of  a  woman — a  little  picture  Jos- 
lin himself  had  bought  one  day  in  a  shop;  the  picture 
of  a  woman  with  large  eyes,  dark,  curling  hair,  a  smile 
upon  her  lips,  as  she  leaned  her  face  upon  her  folded 
hands.  Joslin  was  putting  away  the  past,  not  regret- 
fully, not  longingly,  but  reverently.  The  cornerstone 
was  a  milestone  for  him — one  of  the  greatest  of  his 
life. 

183 


THE  WAY  OUT 

After  a  time  men  came,  old  Absalom  Gannt  at  their 
head.  They  spoke  little,  nor  expressed  any  surprise; 
nor  did  Joslin's  mountain  reticence  much  relax  at  first. 
He  only  said,  quietly,  that  now  he  had  come  home  to 
build  his  school. 

There  were  teams — two  mule  teams,  a  wagon,  a 
plough.  Some  bore  hammers,  others  spades  or  axes. 
More  than  a  dozen  strong  they  were,  and  as  he  looked 
at  them  Joslin  saw  among  them  men  of  his  own  kin, 
and  men  who  but  now  had  been  his  enemies. 

Some  now  extended  the  excavation  along  the  line 
where  Joslin  already  had  pegged  out  the  course  of  his 
foundation.  Others  opened  more  fully  the  vein  of 
sandstone  at  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  The  wagons 
carried  loads  of  rock  now  around  the  crest.  This  rock 
they  laid  with  no  great  skill,  but  steadily  and  soundly, 
into  the  rude  continuance  of  the  foundation,  which 
presently  began  to  outline  itself  definitely  and  surely. 

It  was  to  be  a  building  far  larger  than  any  of  these 
men  had  ever  seen ;  but,  as  one  said  to  the  other,  Davy 
had  been  Outside,  so  he  would  know.  And  David  him 
self,  sitting  now  and  again,  somewhat  wearily,  on  his 
bloody  cornerstone,  looked  at  this  advancement  of  his 
labors  and  was  content. 

Toward  evening  of  the  day  when  they  had  finished 
the  foundation,  Joslin  called  his  band  of  workmen  to- 
gether. 

"Friends,"  said  he,  "we  have  begun.    There  will  be 
184 


THE  CITY  ON  THE  HILL 

no  more  feuds  in  these  mountains.  This  is  your  school 
as  much  as  mine — I  don't  deserve  the  credit  for  it  any 
more  than  you-all  do." 

The  steady  warmth  and  trust  of  their  friendship 
came  all  about  his  heart  now.  After  all,  they  were  his 
people.  All  they  ever  had  needed  was  a  leader  and  a 
chance. 

He  now  dropped  naturally  and  unconsciously  more 
or  less  into  the  vernacular  that  had  been  his,  swiftly  as 
his  own  diction  had  changed  in  his  two  years  of  mi- 
raculously hard  work. 

"We  hain't  been  a  part  of  our  own  state  so  far," 
said  he,  "but  we're  a-goin*  to  be.  Now  we've  got  to 
have  papers  from  our  state — a  charter — afore  we  kin 
run  our  school.  We'll  call  it  the  Cumberland  Insti- 
tute, I  reckon.  Here's  our  application  fer  it.  I  want 
each  of  you  men  to  sign  this  paper.  We'll  be  the 
trustees.  Hit's  right  we  should  be,  because  we  started 
this  work  all  by  ourselves,  with  the  help  of  the  Lord. 

"Absalom,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  old  leader  of 
the  clan  of  Gannts,  "I  want  ye  to  sign  yore  name  right 
here.  I've  signed  it  first — I  took  that  liberty.  Sign 
here,  Absalom." 

The  old  man  stood,  his  jaws  working  hard  under  his 
dense  gray  beard.  "Davy,"  said  he  gently,  "ye  know  I 
kain't  read  or  write." 

"I  know  it,"  said  Joslin.  "I've  put  yore  name  down 
fer  ye,  Absalom.    Make  yore  mark.    That'll  stand  just 

185 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  same.  There's  fifteen  of  us  here,  and  we'll  all  put 
our  names  down.  We've  been  plumb  forgot,  here  in 
the  Cumberlands.  This  will  show  that  we  asked  our 
state  to  accept  us  and  our  work. 

"You,  Chan,"  said  he,  nodding  to  the  next  man, 
"come  and  sign."  And  Chan  came  and  signed  as  Ab- 
salom had  signed — making  his  mark.  And  the  others 
followed,  each  taking  in  his  hand  the  bit  of  pencil. 
Of  the  fifteen  of  them  only  three  could  write  their 
names.  And  those  names,  thus  written,  stand  to-day, 
in  reproach  to  one  of  the  proudest  states  in  the  Union. 

As  one  of  the  workmen  expressed  it,  "things  sort  of 
begun  to  drift  in,  like."  Material  arrived,  and  men 
to  handle  it.  Women  now  brought  up  meals.  So 
strangely  animated  did  the  men  become  that  they 
grudged  the  time  spent  even  in  their  eating,  nor  dicf 
the  hours  of  daylight  seem  long  enough  for  them. 
Some  found  that  shavings  made  an  excellent  bed  for 
the  night.  They  slept  sometimes  in  the  shavings  for 
mattress,  with  their  coats  for  covering. 

Thus  in  time  there  arose,  gaunt  against  the  skyline, 
the  frame  of  the  first  college  building  in  the  Cumber- 
lands.  A  sober,  steady,  quiet  plebiscite  went  on.  The 
entire  population  of  the  village  was  engaged.  Many 
folk  from  the  country  around  about  came  in.  None 
asked  questions.  The  common  thing  was  for  a  man  to 
arrive,  and  to  lay  off  his  coat.  The  least  was  said,  and 
all  was  mended  among  these.    The  work  of  one  strong, 

186 


THE  CITY  ON  THE  HILL 

faith-keeping  man  had  been  done.     There  was  not  a 
weapon  on  the  hill. 

Slowly,  with  incredible  toil,  the  unskilled  hands  of 
these  unpaid  laborers  advanced  the  task  which  they 
had  set  for  themselves.  Still  the  building  extended  it- 
self against  the  skyline.  About  the  bottom  of  the  walls 
now  slowly  arose  the  covering  of  rough-hewn  boards, 
so  that  it  was  more  apparent  what  the  finished  struc- 
ture would  be,  if  ever  it  might  be  finished.  The  hill 
folk  marveled  at  the  vast  size  of  this  building,  won- 
dering at  Davy  Joslin  when  he  told  them  there  were 
yet  larger  in  the  world  outside. 

Joslin  worked  steadily  with  the  others,  growing 
gaunter  and  gaunter  as  the  weeks  passed.  A  faint  line 
of  gray  had  come  at  his  temples,  though  he  yet  was 
young.  He  had  driven  body  and  mind  alike  without 
mercy  these  last  years. 

None  the  less,  in  these  surroundings  so  familiar, 
among  these  friends  so  simple  and  sincere  in  their  con- 
fidence, the  soul  of  the  man,  so  long  sad  and  dour, 
began  to  thaw,  to  show  itself  beneath  the  wintry  as- 
pect of  a  nature  wholly  absorbed  in  a  compelling  pur- 
pose. To  his  lips  came  now  more  often  the  light  jest,' 
the  grim  quip,  the  merry  retort,  which  once  had  marked 
him  as  a  younger  man.  Day  by  day,  not  unsettling 
himself  in  the  new  respect  in  which  they  held  him  for 
his  wider  experience,  he  grew  into,  or  fell  back  into, 
the  old  ways  of  the  earlier  days. 

187 


/ 


THE  WAY  OUT 

At  times  when  the  work  was  done  for  the  day  and 
dusk  had  fallen,  they  would  light  a  lamp  in  one  of 
the  more  sheltered  rooms  of  the  unfinished  building, 
and  Joslin  would  read  to  them  for  an  hour  or  so,  ex- 
plaining to  them  what  he  had  read,  telling  them  of  the 
greater  world  of  thought  and  activity  in  affairs,  which 
lay  beyond  their  knowledge,  and  thus  proving  to  them 
all  the  better  the  need  of  this  work  in  which  they  were 
engaged.  No  Homer  of  old  was  ever  more  a  god  to 
his  listeners  than  David  Joslin  here  in  the  rude  struc- 
ture of  his  unfinished  building. 

Again,  a  yet  lighter  side  of  the  nature  of  the  moun- 
tain man  would  manifest  itself — few,  indeed,  were 
more  human  than  himself  at  heart.  With  a  wide 
smile,  upon  occasion,  he  might  call  a  halt  in  the  labors 
for  a  time,  and,  taking  from  under  a  board  the  new 
violin,  which  represented  his  sole  acquisition  in  the 
outer  world  from  which  he  now  had  exiled  himself  in 
turn,  he  would  motion  to  them  to  clear  a  space  upon 
the  floor,  and  fall  to  dancing  for  his  playing.  For  the 
time,  the  natural  fervor  of  the  mountain  soul  would 
forget  itself  in  the  ancient  relaxation  of  their  kind, 
and  men  and  women,  or  even  children,  would  follow 
the  measure  of  his  bow.  He  played  with  a  certain 
native  skill,  if  with  unfinished  art,  but  knowing  well 
the  power  of  music  as  incentive  and  as  stimulus. 
These  matters  now  strengthened  him  in  the  regard  of 
his  fellows,  so  that  he  became  a  leader  indeed,  not  of 

188 


THE  CITY  ON  THE  HILL 

one  clan,  but  of  many,  of  all.  His  word  was  law  to 
them  now.  Had  he  cared  to  preach,  he  could,  indeed, 
have  stood  before  them  now,  and  swayed  them  with 
his  words.    But  David  Joslin  did  not  preach. 

It  was  thus  that  the  city  grew,  and  thus  that  the 
feuds  passed,  no  man  might  say  when.  There  had  come 
from  among  the  people,  as  always  there  does  come  in 
time  of  need,  a  man  who  had  learned  and  lived,  had 
joyed  and  sorrowed  with  them,  and  who,  therefore, 
was  fit  to  lead  them,  and  to  speak  with  the  tongue  of 
law  and  of  prophecy.  Alone,  Joslin  was  wide-eyed 
and  sorrowing,  as  any  man  must  be  who  carries  bur- 
dens other  than  his  own.  Unconsciously,  he  was  learn- 
ing the  great  truth  that  human  sympathy  is  the  only 
foundation  for  human  leadership. 

"Fer  a  man  who  kin  read  the  way  he  kin,  four  syl- 
lerbles  and  all,  Davy  hain't  stuck  up  none  at  all,"  said 
old  Absalom  Gannt.  "No,  I  reckon  he's  all  right.  He 
hain't  changed  a  bit  inside." 

"He  kin  play  the  fiddle  yit,  too,"  assented  Chan  Bul- 
lock. "I  dunno  as  old  Levi  Gaines  kin  play  Turkey 
in  the  Straw'  any  better  than  what  Davy  does,  an' 
Levi's  been  allowed  to  be  e'en  about  the  best  fiddler  in 
these  parts  fer  nigh  on  to  forty  year." 

"That's  a  heap  older  than  Davy  is,  no  matter  how 
he  looks,"  said  Absalom.  "I  re-colleck  when  he  was 
borned  all  right,  an'  he  hain't  thirty  yit.  I'll  say  he's 
a  right  servigerous  man,  young  as  he  is." 

189 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Well,"  explained  Chan  Bullock,  resting  his  hands 
for  the  time  on  the  top  of  his  mattock  handle.  "While 
he  may  have  been  a  heap  like  the  rest  of  us  one  way  of 
speakin\  Davy  hain't  never  been  profligate.  If  he  had 
been,  I  don't  reckon  he'd  of  been  called." 


CHAPTER  XVII 


THESE   TWAIN 


ONE  day,  without  explanation  to  his  fellows, 
Joslin  ceased  in  his  labors,  and  started  down 
the  hill.  No  one  asked  him  his  intention,  for 
he  rarely  spoke  of  his  own  plans.  They  saw  his  tall 
figure  passing  by  the  road  beyond  the  forks  of  the 
river — the  direction  of  his  home.  A  half-hour  before 
dusk  that  day,  he  arrived  at  the  little  gap  in  the  fence, 
which  made  the  gate  of  his  own  scant  acres,  unvisited 
for  two  years. 

He  walked  steadily  up  to  his  own  door,  and,  without 
announcement,  pushed  it  open. 

Two  women  stared  at  him  without  speech,  as  he 
stood  in  the  half-light.  One  of  these  was  his  wife, 
the  other  his  grandmother — the  latter  had  come  in 
upon  one  of  her  not  infrequent  visits,  for  in  the  Cum- 
berlands  kinship  is  held  a  sacred  thing,  and  the  ravens 
of  the  Lord  have  never  forgotten  their  ancient  er- 
rand. 

Old  Granny  Joslin  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Well, 
Davy?"  said  she,  as  though  she  had  been  expecting 
him. 

191 


THE  WAY  OUT 

He  did  not  answer  her,  did  not  bend  in  token  of 
greeting  to  the  other  woman  who  sat  sullenly  silent 
He  took  his  own  place  at  the  fireside — the  chief's  place 
of  counsel  in  a  cabin  home.  It  once  had  been  his  own 
fireside.    He  was  a  stranger  here  to-day. 

He  stared  silently  at  the  ashes  after  the  fashion  of 
the  mountaineers,  who  mostly  do  so  because  they  have 
few  thoughts.  But  David  Joslin  had  many  thoughts 
now,  riotous  thoughts,  that  left  his  mind  a  scene  of 
combat. 

This  squalid  interior,  the  unmade  bed,  the  grimy 
pillow  coverings,  the  table  littered  with  the  dishes  of 
the  earlier  meal,  the  entire  lack  of  neatness,  cleanliness 
and  order  that  left  the  place  a  hovel,  and  not  a  home 
— all  this  was  as  when  he  had  left  the  place.  There 
arose  for  him  the  comparison  of  this  with  the  sweet 
quiet  of  other  homes. 

He  had  the  feeling  that  gaunt  fingers  were  reach- 
ing out  to  claim  him  once  more.  These  who  sat  here 
— they  were  flesh  of  his  flesh,  bone  of  his  bone.  They 
were  his  people.  He  was  of  them.  What,  then,  was 
his  duty?  And  why  could  he  not  set  out  of  his  mind 
the  comparison  that  urged  in  upon  him — of  these  with 
others  whom  he  had  seen  in  a  wider  and  lovelier  world 
than  this?  These  were  ignorant  as  once  he  had  been 
— caught  in  the  shallows  of  life,  victims  of  dwarfing 
poverty  all  their  days. 

Of  these  two  was  one  whom  David  Joslin  had  sworn 
192 


THESE  TWAIN 

to  love,  honor  and  cherish,  cleaving  to  none  other.  He 
had  lived  after  the  fashion  of  his  people.  Corn  bread 
and  hog  meat ;  pot  hooks  and  the  early  bed  for  the 
woman,  crops  and  the  occasional  "frolic"  for  the  man 
— that  was  the  life  all  of  them  had  known.  This  might 
have  been  any  home;  this  woman,  any  wife  of  these 
hills.  But  other  pictures  rose  before  him — before 
David  Joslin,  a  man  with  a  conscience  and  a  will 
to  do  the  right. 

Joslin  shifted  in  his  chair,  but  there  was  no  greeting 
in  his  gaze.  He  did  not  reach  out  his  hand  to  touch 
that  of  his  wife — indeed,  he  never  would  have  done 
that  in  the  presence  of  another,  for  that  would  have 
been  in  violation  of  the  creed  of  the  hills. 

"Well,  Meliss',"  said  he  at  last,  "I've  come  back." 

"I  see  ye  hev,"  said  she.  "Hit's  nigh  about  time  ye 
did." 

"That  may  be.    At  least  I'm  here." 

"We  heerd  tell  of  ye,  Dayy,"  said  his  grandmother. 
"We  heerd  tell  all  about  what's  happened.  I  don't 
reckon  folks'll  laugh  at  ye  no  more.  How  far  along 
is  the  big  house  by  now,  Davy  ?" 

"The  walls  are  up,  Granny,"  said  he.  "It  looks 
right  fine,  up  on  top  of  the  hill.  We're  out  of  nails 
now — I've  got  to  go  down  the  river  before  long  to  see 
if  I  can  get  trusted  for  a  keg  of  nails  at  Windsor." 
The  corners  of  his  mouth  suggested  a  grim  smile. 

"Ye'd  better  see  if  ye  kain't  git  trusted  fer  a  sack 
193 


THE  WAY  OUT 

of  meal,"  sneered  his  wife.  "How  ye  suppose  we-all 
was  a-goin'  to  live  here?  Hit's  two  year  sence  ye 
left." 

"I  didn't  suppose,  Meliss',"  said  he.  "If  I  had  sup- 
posed anything  at  all  I'd  have  stayed  right  here.  When 
a  thing  has  got  to  be  done,  you  can't  look  at  what  lies 
between  you  and  it." 

"Ye're  a  fine  preacher  o'  the  Gospel,"  said  she  con- 
temptuously. 

"I'm  not  a  preacher  of  the  Gospel,"  replied  David 
Joslin  quietly. 

"How  come  ye  hain't,  Davy?"  demanded  his  grand- 
dam.  "I  done  tolt  everybody  ye  was  called.  How 
come  ye  hain't  a  preacher?  If  ye  was,  that  explains  a 
heap  of  things.  Preachers,  they  hain't  held  respon- 
serble." 

"It's  not  yet  time,  Granny,"  said  Joslin  gently. 
"Some  time,  maybe.    I  don't  know." 

"Not  time!  When's  it  a-goin'  to  be  time  then? 
When  yore  pap  beginned  to  preach,  he  jest  up  an' 
beginned,  that's  all,  an'  he  was  helt  as  powerful  a 
preacher  as  ary  in  these  mountings.  Don't  I  mind 
how  over  on  the  Buffalo  he  preached  fer  two  weeks 
without  a  showin'  o'  grace,  an'  he  kep'  right  on,  an' 
come  evenin'  of  the  fourteenth  day  things  begun  fer  to 
break,  an'  within  the  next  two  days  he  baptized  over 
two  hundred  souls,  tell  he  taken  a  chill  an'  liken  enough 
to  die  from  it,  excusin'  the  quinine  I  gin  him." 

194 


THESE  TWAIN 

"Yes,"  said  Joslin,  "I  know  about  that.  But  if  I 
don't  preach  there,  someone  else  will." 

"Well,  what  then?"  demanded  the  fierce  old  woman 
of  him.  "What's  the  matter  with  ye,  boy  ?  Hain't  ye 
as  good  a  man  as  yore  daddy,  or  air  ye  made  all  of 
skim  melk?" 

He  only  shook  his  head,  and  tried  to  smile. 

"Ye' re  a-workin'  right  alongside  of  them  Gannts 
up  thar,  they  tell  me,"  went  on  the  old  dame.  "Hit 
don't  look  to  me  like  ye  had  sand  enough  to  hurt  a 
flea.  Why  hain't  ye  killed  old  Absalom  long  afore 
this?  My  Lord,  looks  to  me  like  ye'd  had  chancet 
enough !     Did  ye  come  back  fer  yore  pistol  ?" 

"No,  Granny,  I  didn't  come  back  for  my  pistol." 

"If  ye  don't  kill  that  man  I'll  do  it  myself  some 
time!"  exclaimed  the  old  woman  savagely.  "I  hain't 
a-skeered  to  do  it,  if  ye  air.  An'  look  at  Chan  Bul- 
lock— he's  all  the  leader  the  Joslins  has  got  now,  sence 
ye  turned  tail  an'  run  out.  He's  a-workin'  now,  too, 
along  with  the  Gannts — well,  maybe  he's  only  waitin' 
to  git  a  good  chancet.  Maybe  he'll  git  old  Absalom  yit 
some  time." 

"I  don't  think  he  will,"  said  David  Joslin  quietly. 
"They've  slept  side  by  side  for  more  than  one  night, 
and  neither  made  a  move.  Neither  of  them  had  a 
gun — there's  not  a  pistol  in  the  whole  lot." 

"Well,  couldn't  Chan  taken  a  hammer  and  mashed 
him  while  he  was  asleep?"  demanded  the  old  woman. 

195 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"What  better  chancet  will  he  ever  hev  than  he's  got 
right  now  ?  Did  them  people  ever  give  us  ary  chancet, 
I'd  like  to  know?" 

"No ;  nor  did  we  them  until  now,  Granny.  But  that 
day's  gone  by." 

"Don't  ye  be  too  damn  sure,"  reiterated  the  fiery  old 
dame.    "They'll  git  ye  yit,  ef  ye  don't  watch  out." 

"If  they  do,"  said  Joslin,  "I'm  ready  to  go.  I  tell 
you,  times  have  changed  in  these  hills." 

"Huh!"  began  his  wife  again.  "Ye're  takin'  a  heap 
on  yoreself,  seems  to  me,  Davy  Joslin.  I  reckon  ye 
think  ye  done  all  this — in  two  year!" 

"No,  I  don't  think  so,  Meliss'.  I  think  the  Lord 
did  it." 

"And  yet  ye  hain't  set  up  f er  preachin'  yit !  How'd 
ye  come  through  school,  anyhow?  I'll  bet  ye're  pore 
as  Job's  turkey  right  now." 

"I'm  worse  than  that,  Meliss*.     I've  got  nothing." 

"That's  it!  That's  right!"  went  on  his  wife  heat- 
edly. "Hit's  what  I  expected.  Ye'd  let  us  starve. 
Well,  I'll  fix  ye  anyhow." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Meliss'?"  asked  David  Joslin 
curiously.  Under  his  words  now,  gentle  as  they  were, 
was  the  fierceness  of  the  mountaineer,  jealous  of  any 
liberties  taken  with  him. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "ye  quit  me.  Ye  done  left  me 
fer  full  two  year." 

"No,  I  didn't,  Meliss'.     I  didn't  quit  you  for  two 

196 


THESE  TWAIN 

years.    I  told  you  when  I  left  it  was  for  all  my  life." 

"Yes,  an'  that  throwed  her  on  my  hands,"  growled 
Granny  Joslin.  "Still,  I  wouldn't  complain  if  it  hadn't 
been  them  Gannts  stole  eight  or  ten  hawgs  often  us 
last  year." 

"Hit  was  a  fine  way  to  do,"  went  on  his  wife,  with 
growing  confidence  in  her  own  powers  now.  "I  nuwer 
seed  a  man  in  these  mountings  run  away  from  his 
wife  that  way,  lessen  he  was  obleeged  to  lay  out  er 
git  free  from  the  law  fer  a  while." 

"I  didn't  leave  the  country,"  replied  David  Joslin. 
"I  left  you.  Thrt  don't  mean  that  I've  left  any  of  my 
responsibilities.  I  told  you  I  didn't  dare  look  at  the 
things  I  ought  to  do — it  was  only  a  question  of  the 
thing  I  ought  to  do  the  most.  I  had  to  get  my  educa- 
tion first.  Now  I've  come  back.  I  want  to  see  now 
what  I'd  best  to  do  about  you." 

"Fine  time  to  begin  plannin'  now!"  rejoined  his 
wife  sullenly. 

"It's  true,"  said  he,  "I  can't  do  much.  I've  got 
mighty  little  to  do  with.  Still,  I  want  to  pay  my 
debts." 

She  rose  and  stood  before  him,  close  to  his  chair, 
her  hands  clenched  into  fists,  her  eyes  flashing. 

"Dang  ye !"  said  she,  with  all  the  fury  of  the  woman 
scorned  in  her  face.  "Ye  quit  me  yellow,  that's  what 
ye  did.  Ye  run  away  an'  left  me — ye  was  a  coward — 
ye  was  a-skeered  to  stay  in  here — an'  now  ye  want  to 

197 


THE  WAY  OUT 

come  sneakin'  around,  tryin'  to  make  peace  with  them 
Gannts  that  we  fit  with  all  our  lives,  the  hull  of  our 
fam'ly  agin  the  hull  of  theirn !  Ye  come  a-crawlin'  in 
here  atter  dark,  an'  talkin'  to  me  about  plans!  Ye 
say  the  Lord  has  been  a-holpin'  ye.  I  don't  reckon  the 
Lord  had  much  to  do  with  it.  I  reckon  ye  could  tell 
a-plenty  different  story  right  now  if  ye  wanted  to." 

"Yes,"  said  David  Joslin,  his  forehead  wet  now,  "I 
could." 

"Ye  act  to  me  like  a  houn',"  said  she.  "If  ye'd  been 
ary  part  of  a  man  ye  wouldn't  of  runned  away  an'  lef 

•VIA     N 

me. 

"David,  I  reckon  ye  got  to  call  that  kind  of  talk," 
said  the  old  woman  quietly. 

"Yes,  Granny,"  said  he,  "I  reckon  I  must."  But 
yet  he  sat  silent,  while  his  wife,  now  lashed  into  a  fury, 
reviled  him  in  such  words  as  need  not  be  repeated. 
Granny  Joslin  sat  and  chuckled  ghoulishly,  her  pipe  be- 
tween her  toothless  lips. 

"Well,  go  on,  Meliss',"  said  she.  "Ye're  a-gettin' 
ready  for  a  trouncin',  'pears  to  me.  Hain't  no  Jos- 
lin'll  take  that." 

But  presently  her  grim  face  turned  to  the  man  who 
sat  there  silent,  staring  into  the  ashes  of  the  fire. 

"What's  the  matter  with  ye,  boy?"  said  she.  "Air 
ye  quittin'  ?  Tell  me — have  ye  been  actin'  up  with  ary 
other  womern  Outside?  If  ye  hain't,  it's  time  ye  tuk 
an'  taken  a  hand  now  in  yore  own  house." 

198 


THESE  TWAIN 

"Granny,"  said  David  Joslin  suddenly,  his  face  white 
in  his  resolution  for  a  "true  confession  and  not  a  false 
defense,"  "there  are  three  women  in  my  life.  Meliss' 
here  is  one.  There  were  two  others — Outside.  If 
you'd  mean  that  I've  gone  wrong — for  always — with 
either,  or  any  other  woman  in  the  world,  that's  not 
true.  I  came  here  to  tell  you  the  truth.  What  I've 
done  you  know — as  much  as  you're  big  enough  to 
know  or  understand,  Meliss'.  Now,  what  do  you 
mean?  You  say  you've  fixed  me — what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"As  though  I  was  a-goin'  to  keep  on  standin'  it!" 
half  screamed  his  wife.  "I  tell  ye  I'm  through  with 
ye  as  much  as  ye  air  with  me.  That  new  doctor  filled 
yore  mind  with  notions  about  our  bein'  married.  Well, 
all  right!" 

"Yes,  he  did.  It  was  wrong  that  we  ever  should 
have  been  married.  But  I've  ended  that  as  far  as  I 
could.  I  studied  over  it  for  a  long  time.  What's 
right  for  me  to  do  ?    Whatever  it  is,  I  want  to  do  it." 

"I  didn't  need  to  study  so  much  fer  my  own  part," 
retorted  she.  "Thar's  lawyers  as  well  as  doctors  comin' 
in  this  way  nowadays.  Well,  I'm  a-goin'  to  git  me  a 
ch'vorce,  that's  what  Pm  a-goin'  to  do.  I  done  sole 
the  red  hawg  to  pay  the  lawyer,  and  he  done  tolt  me 
what  to  do." 

"Ye  heerd  her,  Davy,"  said  Granny  Joslin,  nodding 
her  head.    "I've  knowed  it.    I  was  a-hopin'  ye'd  give 

199 


THE  WAY  OUT 

her  a  good  thrashin\  though,  afore  she  tolt  ye — hit 
would  of  been  more  manful  if  ye  had.  But  it's  true. 
She's  a-goin'  to  git  a  divorce — the  fust  time  that  word 
has  ever  been  heerd  in  our  fam'ly." 

"Nor  in  mine  neither,"  rejoined  the  younger  woman. 
"We  was  always  fitten  to  be  married  ontel  the  rail- 
roads come  in  here — with  their  new  doctors  an*  their 
new  lawyers.  IVe  been  mocked  here  in  these  mount- 
ings because  my  man  left  me,  an*  because  I  didn't 
have  no  fam'ly.  Well,  I  said  I  fixed  it.  I've  got  out 
the  papers." 

"But  there  was  no  law  against  cousins  marrying  in 
this  state,"  said  Joslin.  "It  was  only  a  natural  law 
we  broke — that's  the  pity  of  it  all,  and  the  awful  part 
of  it  all." 

"If  thar  was  law  agin  hit  thar^d  be  a  heap  of  mar- 
riages ontied  in  these  mountings,"  said  Granny  Joslin. 

"Hit  don't  need  to  be  that,"  expounded  Meliss'. 
"The  lawyer  done  tolt  me,  if  a  man  done  lef  his  wife 
fer  two  year  'thouten  no  support,  she  could  git  a 
Jtvorce  from  him.  Well,  ye  lef  me  two  year  ago — 
ye  jest  been  a-hintin'  at  something  of  yore  goin's  on 
fer  two  year.  Live  with  ye? — Not  if  ye  was  the  last 
man  on  airth!    I'm  done — I'm  a-goin'  to  be  free." 

"You've  different  ideas  from  what  I  had,"  said 
David  Joslin,  still  quietly.  "I  only  thought  it  wasn't 
right  for  us  to  live  together.  I  wasn't  thinking  of 
shirking  any  duty,  or  breaking  any  promise,  least  of 

200 


THESE  TWAIN 

all  my  marriage  promise.     I  was  going  to  pay  you 
all  I  owed — all  I  could  in  every  way." 

"Ye  kain't  pay  me  nothin'  an'  nohow !"  stormed  his 
wife.    "I  don't  need  ye  noways  on  airth!" 

"I've  got  mighty  little  in  the  world,"  went  on  Joslin 
whitely  after  a  time.  "I'll  deed  you  the  farm  here. 
I  never  asked  you  to  do  what  you've  done — divorce  is 
a  thing  unknown  in  our  family  or  in  these  hills.  But 
one  thing's  sure — not  for  any  reason — not  even  if 
the  first  reason  was  taken  away — could  I  go  on  living 
with  you  now." 

Trembling  in  her  rage  at  this,  the  first  actual  slight 
he  had  put  upon  her,  his  wife  rose  and  half  ran  from 
the  room,  deeds,  speech  and  even  tears  denied  her. 
Joslin  made  no  motion  to  restrain  her,  nor  did  the 
old  dame,  chuckling  over  her  pipe,  even  follow  her 
with  her  eyes. 

"It's  done,  Granny,"  said  Joslin  bitterly  after  a  time. 
"She  can  do  what  she  likes  about  marrying  again — 
I'll  not  raise  a  hand  to  help  her  or  stop  her.  What 
I  have  is  hers,  all  of  it,  and  that's  all  I  can  do.  As 
for  me,  I've  not  got  a  dollar,  and  I  never  will  have 
while  I  live,  I  suppose." 

"Thar !"  exulted  the  old  woman.  "I  fotched  it !  I 
knowed  it — I  knowed  thar  was  a  other  womern — but 
two!  Tell  me  all  about  it,  Davy.  Furriners,  huh? 
Well,  I  must  say,  Davy,  that's  more  like — that's  more 
like  ye  had  some  sort  of  a  m<w-sperrit  left  to  ye!" 

201 


THE  WAY  OUT 

Her  shrill  laughter  now  filled  the  room,  and  swayed 
her  gnarled  form  as  she  rocked  to  and  fro,  her  pipe 
involuntarily  falling  from  her  mouth  in  her  merri- 
ment.   "Tell  me  about  'em." 

"One  was  a  married  woman,"  said  David  Joslin, 
speaking  freely  before  his  grandmother  as  he  could 
not  have  done  before  his  wife.  "I  didn't  know  how 
fine  and  steady  and  sweet  a  woman  could  be  till  I 
saw  her.  I  never  heard  her  say  a  word  above  her 
voice.  She  was  fine,  always.  I  reckon  she  gave  me 
my  start — she  showed  what  there  was  to  hope  and 
work  for  in  the  world.  And  she  was  beautiful,  too — 
in  a  way  I  can't  well  describe.  She  was  so  quiet,  so 
still,  folks  never  would  think  she  was  much,  maybe 
not  even  beautiful.  She's  one  worth  more  than  the 
world's  estimate.  There  are  such — the  finest  of  all  in 
all  the  world,  in  all  its  days.    She's  married." 

"Go  on,  Davy,"  chuckled  the  old  dame.  "Tell  the 
rest — tell  about  the  other  furrin  womern.  Ye  said  thar 
was  two  on  'em.  That's  some  sperrit,  boy!  I  declar, 
I'm  a-thinkin'  more  of  ye  now  than  I  done  hafe  a  hour 
ago !  While  ye're  confessin',  come  on  through  an'  tell 
me  the  hull  story.  Was  this-un  old  or  young — was 
she  married  or  single  ?" 

"Single,"  said  David  Joslin,  still  staring  into  the 
fire;  "and  young." 

"What  manner  of  gal  was  she?    Was  she  purty?" 

"I  didn't  think  any  woman  ever  could  be  so  beau- 

202 


THESE  TWAIN 

tiful,  in  one  way,"  said  Joslin  soberly  and  truthfully. 
He  raised  his  eyes  now  and  looked  fair  into  the  face  of 
his  granddam. 

The  old  woman  shrilled  with  laughter  as  she  saw 
the  pallor  of  his  cheek — the  laughter  of  the  old  at  the 
ways  of  life  gone  by.  "Go  on,  Davy!"  said  she. 
"What  sort  of  lookin'  gal  was  she?  Tell  me  now — 
was  she  big  or  little — dark  or  fair?" 

"She  would  just  about  go  under  my  arm  if  I  stood 
up,"  said  David  Joslin  slowly.  "She  was  dark — her 
hair  and  eyes  both  dark.  She  told  me  she  was  French 
and  Irish — she  came  from  Boston,  so  she  said." 

"French  and  Irish — oh,  my  God!"  exclaimed  the 
old  dame.  "Same  as  myself!  Law  sakes,  Meliss'," 
she  shrilled  through  the  half-open  door  beyond — 
"could  you  a-blame  him?  Didn't  I  know  his  daddy, 
an'  don't  I  know  him?  Don't  I  know  ary  man,  come 
to  that 

''Well,  Davy,"  she  added  at  last,  "when  air  ye 
a-goin'  to  leave  us  and  go  on  back  Outside  ?  I  reckon 
thafs  the  one  ye're  a-goin'  back  to,  huh  ?" 

"I'll  never  see  her  again,  Granny,"  said  David  Jos- 
lin quietly.  "But — now  you  ask  me  why  I'm  not  a 
preacher — that's  why." 

Silence  fell  now  in  the  little  cabin,  so  agonized  was 
he.    The  old  woman  nodded  her  head  slowly. 

"I'm  going  away  now,  Granny,"  he  continued  at 
last.     "I've  hurt  Meliss'  mightily,  and  I'm  sorry.     I 

203 


THE  WAY  OUT 

sinned,  and  I  was  to  blame  for  it,  not  she,  and  I  know 
that  clear  enough — she  didn't  know  any  better.  I've 
made  nothing  but  trouble  all  my  life,  for  myself  most 
of  all.     Sometimes  it's  hard  to  stand." 

"That's  right,  Davy,"  said  his  old  granddam,  nod- 
ding. "Yore  way  is  a-goin'  to  be  right  hard,  I  kin  see 
that.  Ye  got  a  heap  of  troubles,  one  thing  with  an- 
other." 

"Well,"  said  he  after  a  time.  "It's  no  use  my 
hanging  around.     I'm  going  back." 

"Goin'  back!"  shrilled  the  old  dame,  in  her  tooth- 
less mirth  fulness.  "We'll  look  fer  ye  some  day — but 
ye  go  on  back  now  to  that  other  womern.  French- 
Irish! — she'll  be  givin'  ye  the  slip  if  ye  don't  watch 
out!" 

"I'm  not  going  back  to  her,"  said  David  Joslin. 
"I  told  you  that  was  done.  I'm  not  coming  back  here, 
either." 

"Huh !"  commented  his  wrinkled  ancestress.  "Here 
ye  was  with  three  wimmern  on  yore  hands  afore  ye 
was  thirty  year  old — Meliss'  an'  them  two  others! 
Well,  I've  heerd  tell  of  mounting  boys  that  has  went 
Outside  an'  made  their  fortunes  an'  come  back. — Ye 
been  right  busy,  one  way  of  speakin'. 

Her  grandson  only  stared  at  her,  mute. 

"As  fer  Meliss',"  she  added  maliciously,  "the  Lord 
has  gave  an'  the  law  has  took  away.  I  don't  put  it 
a-past  her  to  marry  agin — the  lawyer  man  tolt  her  she 

204 


THESE  TWAIN 

could  if  she  liked  an'  could  find  ary  man'd  take  her. 
She's  powerful  homely  now." 

Granny  Joslin  filled  her  pipe  and  went  on  smoking 
and  chuckling.  She  stared  so  steadily  into  the  ashes 
of  the  fireplace,  was  so  deeply  engaged  with  her  own 
self -communings,  that  she  scarcely  noticed  her  grand- 
son as  he  pushed  back  his  chair,  arising. 

"Good-by,  Davy,"  said  she,  as  he  reached  the 
threshold. 

He  turned  from  her  and  once  more  closed  the  door. 
It  was  his  door  no  more. 

"Meliss',"  said  the  old  woman  when  at  length  she 
heard  no  more  his  feet  passing  on  the  hard  ground 
walk.    "Come  on  back  in.    He's  done  gone." 

"What  did  I  say  1"  broke  out  the  younger  woman  as 
she  clumped  in  once  more.  She  flung  herself  into  a 
chair,  her  face  distorted  with  her  jealous  anger.  "I 
knowed  it — I  knowed  it  all  along.  I  knowed  he'd  be 
a-carryin'  on  with  wimmern- folks  outside — he  done 
owned  up  to  two — ye  heerd  him,  didn't  ye?  Us 
a-starvin'  here,  an'  him  livin'  soft  with  them  rich! 
Well,  I  fixed  him,  an'  I'm  glad  of  it — he  had  it  a-com- 
in'  to  him,  that's  one  thing  shore." 

"Well,"  said  Granny  Joslin  after  a  time,  "hit  don't 
look  to  me  like  thar  was  much  hope;  that's  right." 

"Hope!"  half  screamed  the  other,  unrestrained.  "I 
don't  want  no  hope.  If  he  quits  me,  I  reckon  I've  quit 
him.     I  hain't  so  old,  come  to  that.     I  kin  raise  my 

205 


THE  WAY  OUT 

fam'ly  yit,  somewhars  else.  Thar's  other  men  in  the 
world  besides  him — an*  real  men  at  that." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Meliss'  ?"  said  the  old  woman, 
quietly.  "You've  said  that  twict  now.  I  know  the 
Joslins.  He  hain't  nuvver  comin'  back  agin — not  in 
all  his  hull  life.  He's  done.  He'll  have  enough  trou- 
ble— but  he'll  nuvver  trouble  ye  agin.     He's  gone." 

"All  right,  then,"  retorted  the  other  angrily.  "Let 
him  go.  He's  been  gone  fer  two  year,  an'  he  mought 
as  well  have  been  gone  fer  another  year  afore  that 
What  do  I  need  with  him,  with  all  the  other  men  thar 
is  in  the  world?" 

"Huh !"  rejoined  the  old  lady,  "as  though  I  didn't 
know  ye'd  been  a-carryin*  on  a  civil  courtship  already ! 
Seen  him  lately,  Meliss'?  Tears  to  me  like  ye  git 
worse  favored  every  year,  Meliss'.  Ye're  a  powerful 
homely  womem,  like  I  done  tolt  Davy  now."  She  still 
chuckled  savagely,  fearless  as  ever. 

"Go  on  home!"  cried  the  irate  woman  who  faced 
her.  "I  hate  ye  all,  ye  Andy  Joslins.  Who  air  ye, 
anyways,  to  put  on  sech  airs  with  me?" 

But  Granny  Joslin  did  not  go  home  for  yet  a  while. 
Instead,  she  lighted  her  pipe  with  a  coal  once  more, 
pushing  it  down  with  a  horny  forefinger. 

"To  dance  through  life,  Meliss',"  said  she,  after  a 
time,  apropos  of  nothing  apparent, — "that's  what  life 
is  fer.  Ye  set  mopin'  and  dawncey  all  the  time — sour 
as  a  last  month's  cornpone — do  ye  expect  a  man's 

206 


THESE  TWAIN 

a-goin'  to  love  ye  fer  that?  Yore  old  one  didn't,  an* 
yore  new  one  won't.    But  me — I  kin  dance  yit !" 

And  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  the  old  dame 
did  arise,  and  catching  her  scant  skirts  up  in  either 
hand,  executed  a  sturdy  jig  after  the  fashion  of  the 
olden  times,  stamping  out  the  time  on  the  puncheon 
floor,  with  an  occasional  exclamation  of  her  own, 
whirling  and  turning,  and  now  and  then  extending 
her  skirts,  at  last  snapping  her  fingers  as  she  ceased. 
She  seemed  not  too  weary  nor  out  of  breath  as  she 
sank  again  into  her  chair. 

"My  God,  Meliss\"  she  said,  "I'm  glad  thar's  one 
Joslin  that's  showed  hisself  a  man!" 

She  spoke  to  a  vacant  room — the  other  and  younger 
woman,  gone  fey  of  her  own  savage  humors,  once 
more  had  flung  from  the  room  and  was  standing, 
hands  clenched,  in  the  yard  beyond.  But  old  Granny 
Joslin  was  not  perturbed.  She  lighted  her  pipe  once 
more  and  sat  for  a  time  engaged  in  her  own  thoughts 
as  before — her  eyes  fixed  exactly  on  a  certain  knot  of 
a  certain  log  in  the  rude  wall — she  voiced  her  own 
conclusions  to  herself. 

"I  was  about  that  height  my  own  self  when  I  was 
a  gal.  An'  Lord !  hain't  it  sweet — to  come  just  inside 
the  arm  of  a  strong  man,  Meliss'?    Don't  I  know? 

"I  was  a-wonderin'  fer  a  while  which  one  of  them 
two  wimmern  Davy'd  turn  up  with  fustest.  But, 
sakes!  I  know — he  tolt  me  plenty,  if  he  didn't  Meliss'. 

207 


THE  WAY  OUT 

French-Irish — dark  and  curly-haired — big  eyes,  like 
enough — she  come  right  under  his  arm  when  he  stood 
up — the  sort  that's  sort  of  squushy  when  you  hug  'em 
— maybe  light  on  her  feet — laughin',  maybe!  Wim- 
mern  that  laughs  has  always  got  the  aidge  on  them 
that  cries.  Why,  I  kin  see  that  womern  dancin'  as  she 
goes  along,  alive  clar  down  to  her  toes — that's  the 
one — you  hear  me  now 

And  having  demolished  all  argument  on  the  part  of 
the  listening  knot,  Granny  Joslin  at  length  did  knock 
the  last  ashes  from  her  pipe,  and,  rising,  leave  the 
empty  house  and  cold  hearthfire  of  what  was  no  longer 
a  home. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 


MARCIA    H ADDON 


DAVID  JOSLIN  wished  nothing  so  much  as  to 
be  quite  alone.  He  did  not  rejoin  his  com- 
panions on  the  hill.  Pleading  his  errand  at 
Windsor,  he  set  out  at  once  down  stream  with  no 
companion  other  than  his  own  bitter  thoughts.  It 
seemed  to  him  he  never  had  known  a  longer  or  more 
terrible  day,  nor  had  the  future  ever  appeared  to  him 
so  hopeless  and  foredoomed. 

It  was  yet  daylight  when  he  arrived  at  the  little 
town,  and  he  turned  once  more  to  the  boarding  house 
of  the  Widow  Dunham.  As  he  reached  the  gate  he 
caught  the  fragrance  of  a  cigar  whose  aroma  was 
unusual  in  these  parts.  Unwilling  to  meet  strangers, 
he  halted  an  instant ;  but  finding  no  way  out  of  it,  he 
advanced,  an  odd  sort  of  conviction  suddenly  in  his 
mind.  Sitting  there,  almost  as  they  had  sat  two  years 
ago,  he  saw  two  figures,  both  familiar  to  him. 

"Well,  well,"  growled  the  raucous  voice  of  James 
Haddon  as  he  turned.  "What,  what?  We  meet 
again!  How's  this  happen,  stranger?  Where  you 
been  all  the  while?" 

209 


THE  WAY  OUT 

Joslin  shook  the  hand  of  each  simply,  without  a 
word. 

Haddon  was  heavier,  redder,  yet  more  coarsened 
by  his  manner  of  life,  than  when  he  last  had  seen 
him.  The  flesh  hung  puffily  on  his  cheeks,  drooped 
from  his  folded  neck  above  his  collar.  His  promi- 
nent eyes  were  yet  more  prominent  and  bulging. 

As  for  his  wife,  it  seemed  more  than  ever  as  though 
she  did  not  belong  with  him,  as  though  she  degraded 
herself  by  sitting  even  thus  close  to  him. 

"We  didn't  expect  to  see  you  here,  Mr.  Joslin," 
said  Marcia  Haddon — "nor  anywhere  else,"  with  a 
faint  smile. 

"I  always  planned  one  day  to  explain  to  you, 
Ma'am,"  said  Joslin.  "I  didn't  want  you  to  think  me 
ungrateful.    I  may  have  seemed  so." 

Marcia  Haddon's  quick  senses  caught  the  increased 
dignity  about  the  man.  She  noted  also,  keenly,  wom- 
anlike, the  new  shade  of  sadness  on  his  unsmiling  face, 
and  wondered  what  was  the  cause. 

But  Haddon  himself  had  no  interest  in  these  mat- 
ters. "Well,"  he  growled,  "I'm  not  going  to  say  I 
was  tickled  to  death  at  the  way  you  treated  us.  You 
double-crossed  me — you  threw  me  down,  that's  all." 

"Mr.  Haddon,"  said  David  Joslin  quietly.  "I  did 
not  double-cross  you.  I  never  did  that  in  my  life  to 
anyone.    You  can't  call  that  to  me." 

"Well,  you  didn't  go  along,"  rejoined  Haddon 
210 


MARCIA 

testily.  "I  hate  above  all  things  the  man  that  won't 
go  along  with  the  bunch.  It  knocks  to  pieces  any 
sort  of  business — big  men  go  in  front  and  plan  things, 
and  some  little  fellow  comes  along  and  knocks  it  all 
out.    I've  got  no  patience  with  that  sort  of  thing." 

Joslin's  pale  face  suddenly  went  white. 

"I've  not  a  dollar  in  my  pocket  now,  Mr.  Haddon," 
said  he  at  last.  "I  didn't  have  when  I  was  in  your 
country.  I  didn't  know  the  ways  of  your  country — I 
was  ignorant.  But  you  don't  know  the  ways  of  my 
country,  and  you're  ignorant,  or  you'd  not  speak  that 
way  to  me." 

"Don't  bring  it  all  up  again,  Jim,"  interposed  Marcia 
Haddon  quickly,  and  raised  an  arm  of  intervention, 
although  Joslin  had  not  moved.  She  tried  to  catch 
her  husband's  eye,  for  she  herself  knew  it  was  not 
far  to  trouble  now.  "Why,  Mr.  Joslin,"  she  went  on, 
"we  were  just  talking  of  you  and  wishing  we  had 
someone  to  take  us  in.  We're  here  just  as  we  were 
two  years  ago;  and,  as  you  say,  we're  ignorant.  We 
don't  know  this  country  any  better  now  than  we  did 
then.  You  say  you're  not  ungrateful — won't  you  let 
us  be  grateful  too?" 

"He  knows  what  I  want  now,"  interrupted  her  hus- 
band testily.  "It's  time  I  knew  something  absolute 
and  sure  about  my  company's  investments  in  there. 
Well,  are  you  going  to  take  me  in  this  time,  young 
fellow?"  he  demanded  brusquely  of  Joslin.     "Let  me 

211 


THE  WAY  OUT 

tell  you,  I'm  not  going  to  turn  back  again.  Are  you 
going  to  try  to  square  it  now  a  little  by  helping  the 
man  that  helped  you?" 

"If  it's  any  help  to  Mrs.  Haddon  to  have  me  go  in 
with  you,  I'll  be  glad,"  said  Joslin  directly.  "She  has 
been  very  good  to  me.  I'm  going  back  up  river  to- 
morrow as  far  as  the  Forks. 

"But  I've  got  to  be  going  now,"  he  added,  and  so 
turned  away  to  the  street  gate,  so  shaken  with  white 
anger  that  he  scarce  cared  where  he  went. 

Haddon,  mumbling,  rose  and  went  into  the  house, 
leaving  his  wife  alone.  Not  long  later  she  heard  a 
giggle,  a  protest,  a  chuckle  of  low  laughter.  James 
Haddon  had  chucked  the  comely  Widow  Dunham  un- 
der the  chin,  had  cast  an  arm  across  her  somewhat 
ample  shoulders. 

"Who  was  that  talkin*  outside  ?"  queried  the  widow. 

"Oh,  that?     It  was  that  long-legged  chambermaid 

you  had  working  here  last  year — Jucklin — Joslin 

What's  his  name?  Never  mind  him — won't  I  do?  At 
least  I  used  to." 

The  widow  replied  in  such  fashion  as  was  obvious. 
Their  joint  murmured,  low-laughing  conversation  be- 
came unescapable  for  the  single  auditor  on  the  gallery. 
At  length  Marcia  Haddon  rose.  Something  came  upon 
her  on  the  instant,  some  swift,  unappointed  revolt,  an 
unspeakable  disgust  with  the  married  bondage  she  had 
so  long  borne  unwillingly.     She  could  not  speak  with 

212 


MARCIA 

her  husband — quietly  she  passed  the  two  and  went 
into  her  own  room. 

He  followed  her,  after  a  time,  and  there  she  turned 
upon  him  suddenly,  her  cheeks  burning  in  two  red 
spots. 

"Jim,  I  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any  longer. 
I  can't— I  can't—and  I  will  not!" 

He  stood  suddenly  crestfallen  at  this  sudden  revolt 
of  one  long  thought  so  passive.  She  went  on  hur- 
riedly. 

"It's  gone  too  far.  If  it's  not  one  woman,  it's  an- 
other. It's  in  your  blood  now — you've  been  at  this 
sort  of  thing  so  long  you  can't  stop.  I've  been  ashamed 
for  years.    How  can  I  help  knowing?" 

"If  I  did,  who's  to  blame?"  he  rejoined  surlily.  "A 
woman  as  cold  as  you " 

"Yes,  that's  true  now,  that's  true !  But  why  should 
you  care?  Only,  I'll  not  go  on  this  way  any  far- 
ther." 

Hands  in  pockets,  he  only  turned  away,  growling. 

"Oh,  yes,  back  home,"  she  went  on,  her  hands  at 
the  sides  of  her  temples,  "I  seemed  to  be  able  to  stand 
lit.    But  here — things  seem  plainer,  some  way." 

His  sneer  had  the  sullen  anger  of  a  man  who  knows 
the  indefensibility  of  his  position.  "That  long-legged 
lout  has  taught  you  to  cheek  me  too.    Damn  him !" 

"Jim,"  said  she,  "I  don't  like  to  hear  such  things 
of  you.     It's  not  worthy  of  the  man  you  used  to  be. 

213 


THE  WAY  OUT 

When  we  get  back  to  the  city  we'll  have  to  get  on  some 
other  way.  I'll  go  on  through  with  you  now,  because 
I  know  your  business  interests  are  in  real  danger.  I 
won't  say  anything  now.  But  that's  all.  I'm  done. 
This  is  good-by  for  you  and  me." 

Dum founded,  Haddon  left  her  and  went  out  again 
into  the  darkness.  He  sat  moodily,  his  cigar  hanging 
from  his  flabby  lips.  Mutiny  such  as  this  he  had  never 
suspected  as  a  possible  thing  from  a  woman  like  his 
wife.  There  came  to  him,  sternly  facing  him  now, 
two  influences — new  in  his  life  of  bluffing  and  jolly- 
ing and  pretending  and  evading  and  deceiving — the 
indomitableness  of  a  real  man  and  the  immutability 
of  a  real  woman. 


CHAPTER  XIX 


THE   NARROWS 


BY  morning,  Haddon  had  become  a  trace  more 
possible  in  his  comportment.  He  did  not 
need  to  speak  to  Joslin  further  about  the 
joining  of  forces  up  the  river,  for  the  latter  had  his 
own  supplies  at  the  landing  early,  ready  for  the  em- 
barkation, and  had  arranged  to  send  down  for  his 
own  boat  at  a  later  time.  They  set  about  their  journey 
in  Haddon's  boat,  as  being  more  commodious  and 
faster.  It  did  fairly  well,  the  out-board  motor  chug- 
ging along  around  bend  after  bend  of  the  ancient  river, 
awakening  echoes  whose  like  had  never  before  that 
time  been  known  in  these  hills  where  oar  and  paddle 
and  sweep  had  served  immemorially. 

At  noon  they  ate  their  luncheon  on  a  shaded  bank — 
not  too  happy  a  company,  for  Haddon  was  strangely 
silent,  his  wife  not  less  so,  and  Joslin  himself,  always 
taciturn,  found  no  reason  for  speech.  As  they  re- 
embarked  Haddon  did  make  some  inquiry  as  to  the 
length  and  character  of  the  remaining  way. 

"By  and  by,  in  four  or  five  miles,"  answered  Joslin 
civilly,  "we'll  come  to  the  foot  of  the  Narrows.     I 

215 


THE  WAY  OUT 

reckon  we'll  have  to  drag  the  boat  up  through  the 
Narrows.  Between  here  and  there  we'll  have  trouble 
— the  water  shoals  out  in  a  good  many  places." 

This  last  was  fair  prophecy,  as  they  were  to  find. 
It  never  occurred  to  H addon  that  he  could  go  over- 
board and  help  in  the  progress  of  the  boat  when  it 
grounded.  Joslin  stepped  out  as  he  was,  took  the 
painter  of  the  boat  across  his  shoulder,  and,  bent  for- 
ward like  any  beast  of  burden,  waded  on,  dragging 
the  heavy  craft  behind  him.  Marcia  Haddon  sat 
watching  all  this,  looking  from  the  one  man  to  the 
other.  The  patience  of  the  poor  man,  the  carelessness 
of  the  rich  man — these  things  indeed  came  to  her  soul 
in  the  nature  of  a  comparison.  At  length  Haddon  had 
the  bad  taste  and  bad  judgment  to  complain  queru- 
lously about  the  slowness  of  their  progress. 

"Damn  it,  man,  is  that  as  fast  as  you  can  go?"  he 
exclaimed,  perhaps  having  in  mind  earlier  experiences 
with  half-breed  guides  in  tourist  countries. 

Joslin  made  no  immediate  reply,  but  stood  rigid  for 
a  time,  very  pale.  At  length,  the  painter  of  the  boat 
still  in  his  hand,  he  waded  back  alongside  the  boat 
and  looked  the  other  man  in  the  face,  his  own  eyes 
glowing. 

"Mr.  Haddon,"  said  he,  "get  out  here  in  the  water. 
If  we  both  pull  on  the  line,  we  can  get  this  lady  up 
there  a  good  deal  faster." 

And  Haddon,  being  wise,  got  out,  accoutered  as  he 

216 


THE   NARROWS 

was.  Joslin,  somber,  taciturn,  did  not  speak  to  him  at 
all  for  a  half-hour  or  more. 

At  length  they  came,  with  an  hour  or  so  yet  of  day- 
light, to  the  foot  of  the  great  pool  which  lay  below 
the  Narrows. 

"Here's  where  we'll  have  to  be  careful,"  said  Joslin 
now,  as  rounding  the  bend  they  caught  the  full  roar 
of  the  waters  which  had  assailed  their  ears  for  so 
long.  Before  them  lay  a  deep  black  pool  with  a  high 
ridge  of  white  running  down  the  middle.  Above  the 
pool  a  transverse  bar  of  white  entirely  crossed  the 
river,  here  pinched  down  between  two  rock  walls. 
The  stream  plunged  across  a  broken  reef,  dropping 
some  feet  in  a  wide  cascade.  On  either  side  were  flat 
ledges  of  rock  now  exposed  above  the  water.  Obvi- 
ously, it  was  the  intention  of  Joslin  to  walk  alongside 
and  drag  up  the  boat  close  to  the  shore. 

"How  far  is  it  on  from  here?"  demanded  Haddon, 
sullenly.  "It's  one  hell  of  a  looking  spot,  ain't  it, 
you've  brought  us  to — black  already  as  though  it  was 
night !    I  never  did  like  water  anyway." 

"There's  a  short  cut  across  the  hills  from  here  to 
town — only  a  few  miles,"  Joslin  answered  quietly. 
"We  can  make  good  time  once  we  get  above  here." 

"It's  a  mighty  bad-looking  place,"  grumbled  Had- 
don. "I  don't  like  the  looks  of  it  at  all.  How  are  you 
ever  going  to  get  up  through  there  ?" 

"It's  easy,"  said  Joslin.  "I've  been  through  a  thou- 
217 


THE  WAY  OUT 

sand  times,  I  reckon.  I'll  take  care  of  you,  so  don't 
be  afraid.  Now,  when  I  run  alongside  the  ledge  yon- 
der, Mrs.  Haddon,  you  climb  on  out  the  best  you  can." 

She  did  so  quickly  and  lightly.  Haddon  clumsily 
scrambled  out  on  his  knees,  red  of  face,  still  grum- 
bling, irritable. 

They  stood  now  on  a  flat  ledge  of  the  sandstone 
which  made  a  fair  footway,  broken  here  and  there 
with  steps  as  one  eroded  stratum  after  another  dropped 
down.  The  river  itself  had  cut  through  the  entire 
ledge  in  the  course  of  a£es,  and  made  a  plunge,  as 
has  been  stated,  of  many  feet.  From  their  new  place 
of  vantage  they  could  see  the  full  height  of  what  the 
mountaineers  called  the  "king  breaker"  of  the  Nar- 
rows— a  white  crest  of  up-flung  water  which  rolled 
back  toward  the  foot  of  the  cascade  before  it  was 
caught  in  the  downward  pull  of  the  current.  The 
roar  of  the  water  was  now  full  in  their  ears.  The 
spot  was  gloomy,  oppressive. 

"I  wish  it  wasn't  so  dark!"  said  Marcia  Haddon, 
huddling  her  arms  to  her.  She  scarce  had  spoken  for 
an  hour  before.     "It's  growing  colder,  too." 

"We'll  not  be  long,  Ma'am,"  said  Joslin.  "Don't 
be  afraid  at  all.  Just  walk  on  up,  and  I'll  get  the  boat 
up  a  little  way." 

"\Yait  a  minute,"  said  Haddon.  "It's  late,  but  I 
just  want  to  try  to  make  a  picture  here — I  want  to 
show  the  boys  what  sort  of  a  place  this  is  that  they've 

218 


THE   NARROWS 

sent  me  to — I've  left  my  camera  on  the  boat  seat. 
I'll  have  a  try  at  it  anyhow." 

As  Joslin  now  paused,  bracing  back  on  the  painter 
of  the  heavy  skiff,  it  was  caught  by  a  strong  side  cur- 
rent where  the  stream  was  flung  back  from  its  impact 
against  the  rocky  bank — a  current  which  ran  out, 
headed  almost  mid-stream,  toward  the  main  break  of 
the  big  wave.  The  boat,  held  thus  strongly,  had  no 
great  bearing  on  the  water  at  its  bow,  but  Haddon, 
unaccustomed  to  such  matters,  forgot  that,  or  did  not 
know  it.  Before  Joslin  could  stop  him  he  was  clum- 
sily bending  over  as  though  to  climb  once  more  into 
the  boat,  tugging  at  the  gunwale  to  pull  it  closer  to 
him. 

It  was  then,  in  some  way — no  one  could  tell  how — 
that  his  foot  stumbled  and  caught  at  a  ledge  of  the 
rock.  He  pitched  forward  into  the  unstable  portion 
of  the  boat,  stumbled,  and,  as  the  wash  of  the  water 
came  in-board,  went  over,  still  under  the  impetus  of 
his  fall,  and  sank,  directly  into  the  outflung  current. 
It  all  had  happened  in  an  instant,  nor  could  mortal 
man  have  prevented  it. 

Marcia  Haddon  for  just  half  a  moment  saw  the 

upturned   face  of  her  husband  as  it  disappeared,  a 

face  on  which  horror  was  written — unspeakable  and 

unforgettable  horror.    The  next  instant  he  was  gone — 

Hie  was  under. 

"Quick!"  called  Joslin  sharply  to  Marcia  Haddon, 
219 


THE  WAY  OUT 

and  cast  her  the  rope.  "Make  it  fast  over  some- 
thing." 

But  he  did  not  stop  to  see  whether  or  not  her  weak 
strength  would  serve  to  hold  the  boat.  He  was  kick- 
ing off  his  shoes,  throwing  off  his  coat,  even  as  he 
spoke,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  water,  as  he  made  ready 
for  a  leap  few  men  would  have  dared. 

A  hat  floated,  far  below.  But  nothing  else  showed 
— neither  here  in  the  eddy,  nor  yonder  in  the  side  cur- 
rent, nor  in  the  great  pool  below.  Haddon  had  gone 
deep  in  his  fall,  he  might  have  been  carried  out  some- 
where midstream,  but  why  did  he  not  show  on  the 
surface  somewhere  in  all  this  time? 

All  the  time  he  called  back  over  his  shoulder  reas- 
suringly to  Marcia  Haddon,  but  he  could  not  see  what 
she  was  doing — only  he  waited,  eyes  outward,  strain- 
ing, to  find  some  object  on  the  waters — some /object 
now  so  fatally  long  delayed.  But  nothing  showed. 
At  length,  hesitating  no  longer,  he  did  what  no  man 
ever  had  been  known  to  do  before.  He  dived  straight 
out  for  the  foot  of  the  up-flung  crest  of  the  Narrows 
of  the  Kentucky — straight  down  under  the  roll  of  the 
"king  breaker"  itself. 

Joslin  before  now  had  seen  a  log  roll  about  here 
for  hours  in  the  clutch  of  the  back-turned  wave,  toss- 
ing up  and  down  until  at  length  some  freak  of  the 
current  set  it  free.  He  fancied  that  perhaps  Haddon 
might  be  caught  in  something  of  the  same  way.     It 

220 


THE   NARROWS 

was  one  chance  in  ten  thousand  for  him  now,  on«  in 
hundreds  for  the  man  who  was  giving  him  that 
chance.    Would  he  win? 

A  myriad  of  blue- white  bubbles  made  a  veil  across 
the  current  down  in  below,  and  he  saw  this  vaguely, 
although  the  sun  was  so  low  that  the  water  was  lighted 
but  ill  at  this  hour.  The  yeast  of  the  water  did  not 
hold  him  up  well — he  sunk  deeper,  still  deeper,  he 
knew  not  how  far  down.  Blindly  his  arms  reached 
out,  feeling  every  way.  They  touched  nothing — the 
thin,  oxygenated  fluid  hardly  could  be  felt  at  all.  He 
rose,  swam  on  across  the  stream,  on,  out,  indeed,  he 
knew  not  where.  He  rose  just  beyond  the  foot  of 
the  main  chute,  having  been  down  longer  than  he 
dreamed  a  man  might  stay  and  live. 

But  when  he  found  himself  still  able  to  swim  and 
still  able  to  see,  when  he  had  flung  the  water  from  his 
eyes,  he  still  saw  nothing  near  him,  nothing  on  the 
black  pool.  He  was  alone.  He  could  hear  the  cries 
of  a  woman.  He  could  not  go  back.  It  was  all  he 
could  do  to  reach  the  further  shore. 

He  landed  well  toward  the  foot  of  the  pool,  with 
difficulty  pulling  himself  out  upon  the  ledge  there. 
But  as  he  turned  once  more,  nothing  but  the  black  and 
the  white  water  met  his  gaze.  James  Haddon  was 
gone.    Where  ? 

He  dared  not  now  look  across  to  the  woman  whom 
he  saw  wringing  her  hands.     He  ran  to  the  head  of 

221 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  pool,  toward  the  flat  rock  where  lay  some  charred 
embers  of  many  earlier  fires.  Eagerly,  intently,  he 
looked  out  and  down  upon  the  water  for  some  sign 
of  what  he  sought 

There  was  some  sort  of  sign !  Deep  below  the  sur- 
face, it  seemed  to  him  he  saw  some  long  dark  object, 
floating,  swinging,  rising  and  falling,  but  not  going 
down  on  the  current.  It  hung  as  though  held.  Was 
it  some  log?    Joslin  knew  it  could  not  be. 

Drawing  his  breath  in  deep  and  full,  he  sprang  again 
far  out,  feeling  with  his  arms,  with  his  feet,  but  at 
first  touching  nothing.  Suddenly,  just  inside  the 
ridge  of  white  water,  there  came  up  against  his  body 
from  below  a  heavy  blow,  as  from  some  object  flung 
upward  by  a  giant  hand. 

It  was  the  body  of  James  Haddon,  swaying  there. 
It  was  swaying  strangely,  for  some  unknown  reason. 
It  was  James  Haddon's  free  hand  had  smitten  Joslin 
in  the  face  as  though  contemptuous  of  him  even  now. 

But  Joslin  caught  at  the  hand,  tugged  at  it.  The 
body  would  not  give — it  swayed  in  the  current,  but 
it  still  was  held! 

Joslin  knew  now  what  it  meant.  Slowly,  gasping, 
he  turned  once  more  to  his  side  of  the  river,  and  once 
more  climbed  out  upon  the  ledge.  He  was  growing 
weaker,  but  there  was  yet  much  to  be  done.  He 
dared  not  look  across  the  river  now.  In  truth,  Marcia 
Haddon's  face  most  of  the  time  was  buried  in  her 

222 


THE   NARROWS 

hands— only  she  raised  it  once  in  a  while  to  see  what 
new  terror  was  here  for  her. 

She  saw  this  strange  man,  apparently  insane,  on 
the  farther  side  of  the  river,  once  more  pull  himself 
up  on  the  ledge,  once  more  run  up  to  the  head  of  the 
pool,  once  more  stand  there,  at  the  edge,  hesitating. 

But  Joslin  was  hesitating  only  to  summon  up  his 
powers  once  more.  When  he  dived  this  time,  the 
open  blade  of  his  pocket  knife  was  in  his  teeth.  He 
swam  out  again,  and  she  saw  him  working  part  of 
the  time  above,  part  of  the  time  below  the  water,  the 
dark  outline  of  his  own  body  now  and  again  flung  out, 
visible  above  the  course  of  the  white  water  which 
ridged  down  into  the  dark  pool. 

At  last  she  saw  his  head  turn.  He  followed  some- 
thing, apparently,  down  through  the  fast  water,  down 
into  the  black,  down  to  the  foot  of  the  pool.  She 
guessed  what  it  must  be. 

Joslin  had  known  what  held  the  body  of  James 
Haddon  fast.  Carried  deep  down  outward  by  the  side 
current,  Haddon  had  felt  something  floating  down 
there,  had  caught  at  it — a  thing  no  larger  than  the 
straw  at  which  a  drowning  man  will  clutch.  It  was 
no  larger  than  a  straw — the  thick  cord  of  a  fisher- 
man's heavy  set-line,  armed  with  hooks  depending  on 
short  lines — two  score  hooks  or  more,  each  of  them  a 
man-trap  in  such  waters.  As  he  had  grasped  at  this 
line  the  current  had  carried  him  on  down.    The  first 

223 


THE  WAY  OUT 

hook  had  impaled  him,  passing  entirely  through  the 
palm  of  his  hand.  He  swung  without  any  possibility 
of  escape.  Below  him  somewhere  two  or  more  heavy 
catfish  were  tugging  at  the  line,  themselves  impaled 
without  hope  of  escape. 

All  these  things  had  caused  what  Joslin  had  seen 
— the  strange  swaying  of  the  man's  body  back  and 
forth  there  below  the  surface. 

And  Joslin  knew  by  the  time  the  body  had  reached 
the  foot  of  the  pool,  by  the  time  he  had  cut  loose  the 
remaining  line  and  dragged  the  body  up  on  the  beach 
below,  that  all  hope  was  long  since  gone  for  James 
Haddon. 

Weakly  now  and  inefficiently  he  did  what  he  could 
to  try  to  revive  life  in  the  victim,  but  the  bluish-purple 
face,  the  wide-open  mouth,  the  staring  eyes,  told  him 
well  enough  the  truth. 

Joslin  rose  after  a  time.  The  woman  was  standing 
there  still,  her  hands  at  the  side  of  her  face,  staring. 
He  knew  that  she  must  know. 

The  boat  was  gone.  Joslin  looked  down  the  stream. 
He  saw  it  on  his  side  of  the  river,  by  freak  of  the 
stream  grounded  on  the  bar  which  made  out  from 
the  point.  He  hastened  to  the  boat,  waded  out,  caught 
it,  and  with  the  oars  by  chance  left  in  the  boat  made 
his  way  upstream  to  the  foot  of  the  pool.  With  dif- 
ficulty he  got  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  the  heavy 
body  of  the  dead  man. 

224 


THE   NARROWS 

He  did  not  speak  at  all  when  at  length  the  boat  lay 
once  more  along  shore  on  the  left-hand  bank,  below 
the  flat  ledge  on  which  Marcia  Haddon  stood.  He 
caught  the  painter  now  around  the  stump  of  a 
gnarled  cedar  near  the  edge,  and  so  turned  toward 
her  at  last,  facing  the  hardest  of  all  this  grievous 
task. 

She  stepped  slowly,  horror-smitten,  toward  the 
brink,  her  hands  at  her  temples.  Joslin  held  her 
;he  arm  as  she  looked  down  into  the  swaying 
boat.  The  face  of  her  husband  stared  up  at  her 
—  bluish-white,  the  thickened  lips  open,  the  eyes 
staring. 

"You  must  go  away,"  said  Joslin  at  last. — "Go  over 
there  in  the  brush  and  sit  down.  I'll  have  to  drop  the 
boat  down." 

He  did  drop  it  down  to  a  point  where  the  ledge 
dipped  so  that  he  could  make  some  sort  of  landing. 
Slowly,  with  very  much  difficulty,  he  managed  to  dis- 
embark the  ghastly  cargo.  Able  to  do  no  more,  he 
literally  dragged  the  body  of  James  Haddon  out  and 
let  it  lie  upon  the  sand  at  the  edge  of  a  thicket.  But 
she  had  followed  him  and  looked  down  speechless  as 
she  knelt  now,  her  hands  still  at  her  face,  her  head 
shaking  from  side  to  side. 

"Jim!    Jim!"  she  whispered.    "Oh!  Oh!" 

"I  feel  as  though  it  had  been  my  fault,"  broke  out 
Joslin.     "I  put  out  that  set-line  myself  when  I  came 

235 


THE  WAY  OUT 

through  yesterday.  We  fish  there  for  catfish  all  the 
time — they  run  in  that  deep  water  out  there.  He 
must  have  got  fouled  in  the  line  somewhere  when  he 
got  in.  My  God ! — I  feel  as  though  I  had  killed  him 
myself." 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  COMING  OF  JAMES  HADDON 

THE  sun  was  gone,  and  the  shadows  were 
black  in  the  defile.  The  ancient  river  went 
on  with  its  mocking  of  them,  now  low  and 
hoarse,  now  cynically  shrieking,  as  the  voice  of  flow- 
ing water  will  come,  altered  by  the  currents  of  the  air. 

The  two  thus  alone  in  the  wilderness  spoke  not  at 
all  for  some  time,  and  then  Joslin  could  only  go  on  in 
his  own  self-reproach. 

"It  was  where  we  built  the  fires,  Ma'am,"  he  said 
vaguely,  still  endeavoring  to  explain  what  could  not 
be  explained  save  in  the  books  of  the  gods.  "I've  sat 
there  myself  more  than  one  night — I  studied  there, 
Ma'am,  read  my  lessons,  getting  ready  to  teach.  I 
read  while  I  waited  for  the  fish  to  bite.  I  set  that 
line  my  own  self.  I  never  knew — oh!  it  seems  as 
though  I  had  done  this  with  my  own  hand." 

"Don't,"  she  said,  gentle  and  just  even  now.  "I  was 
afraid  you  both  were  gone.  Please  don't  talk.  I'm 
afraid — oh,  I'm  afraid! — and  I'm  so  cold — I'm  so 
very  cold." 

She  was  shivering  now,  Joslin  as  well.  He  hur- 
227 


THE  WAY  OUT 

ried  to  his  flung  coat  and  found  matches  this  time, 
came  with  bits  of  drift  wood,  pieces  of  dry  branches. 
He  built  a  little  fire.    "You  must  get  warm,"  said  he. 

"What  shall  we  do?  Oh,  what  shall  we  do?  This 
awful  place — oh,  this  awful  place!" 

"Wait  just  a  little,"  said  David  Joslin.  "You  must 
get  warm." 

They  cowered  at  the  fire,  two  small  human  objects 
here  in  the  grip  of  the  wilderness,  in  the  hands  of 
fate  indeed.  It  was  some  time  before  Joslin  raised  his 
head. 

"There's  someone  coming — 1  hear  a  wagon  on  the 
rocks,  Ma'am,"  said  he,  starting  up.  "You  stay  here 
— I'll  go  see — it  must  be  someone  on  the  trail  above." 

He  hurried  to  the  edge  of  the  undergrowth  and 
disappeared.  The  sound  of  wheels  became  apparent 
to  her  ears.  Soon  after  they  stopped  she  saw  Joslin 
come  again,  accompanied  by  a  tall  gaunt  man  his  equal 
in  stature,  a  man  who  came  and  stood  near  by  her, 
looking  down  in  pity. 

"Ma'am,"  said  he,  "this  is  mighty  bad — mighty 
bad." 

"Help  me,  Absalom,"  said  David  Joslin.  "Mrs. 
Haddon,  you  go  over  there.  We're  going  to  take  him 
to  the  wagon." 

Marcia  Haddon  turned  away,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands.  She  did  not  see  David  Joslin  and  Absalom 
Gannt  as  they  bent  and  lifted  between  them  the  dead 

228 


THE   COMING 

body  of  the  man  who  but  now  might  have  boasted 
that  he  held  these  and  the  land  of  these  in  the  hollow 
of  his  hand.  They  held  him  now,  neck  and  heels, 
in  the  hollows  of  their  hands,  such  being  the  will  of 
fate.  They  carried  him  up  the  hillside,  and  they  laid 
him  on  the  top  of  the  rough  load  of  lumber  which 
was  to  make  his  resting  place  for  a  time.  Then  they 
came  back  after  the  woman. 

"I  was  down  to  the  mill  fer  a  load,"  said  Absalom 
to  Joslin  as  they  walked.  "Hit's  a  lucky  thing.  That's 
his  wife?  Oh,  my  Lordy,  hain't  that  hard!  Ye  say 
he's  the  Company  man?    He  was  rich " 

"Very  rich,"  said  Joslin.  "She's  a  good  woman, 
his  wife.  We'll  have  to  help  her,  Absalom.  She'll 
have  to  stay  with  us  for  a  while.  We'll  have  to  bury 
him  in  here,  I  reckon — he  couldn't  ever  be  got  out." 

"Tell  me,  how  come  him  to  get  in  thar,  anyways?" 

"Fell  into  the  boat — and  on  over — he  was  trying 
to  get  something  out  of  the  boat,"  replied  Joslin. 
"The  current  carried  him  down  under.  You  saw  his 
hand — that  was  where  I  cut  the  fish  hook  out.  He  was 
swinging  on  the  set-line  when  I  saw  him.  I  was  on 
the  other  side  then." 

"Ye've  had  a  hard  time  savin'  of  him,  Davy,  that's 
shore  enough,"  rejoined  Absalom  soberly.  "I  know 
what  that  water  is.  Well,  the  Narrers  has  got  one 
more  man.     Damn  'em,  anyways!" 

They  spoke  no  more  when  they  had  come  to  Marcia 
229 


THE  WAY  OUT 

Haddon.  She  felt  the  hand  of  each  of  these  tall  men, 
one  at  each  elbow,  aiding  her  to  rise,  aiding  her  up 
the  steep  slope  of  the  mountain,  aiding  her  to  climb 
up  on  the  load  of  lumber  where  lay  the  long  shrouded 
figure,  covered  with  coats  now — all  that  was  left  of 
what  had  been,  or  ought  to  have  been,  all  in  the  world 
to  her. 

Absalom  Gannt  took  up  the  reins  and  sat  at  the 
front  of  the  load  of  lumber,  his  back  toward  them. 
Joslin  sat  at  one  side  of  the  load,  reaching  out  a  hand 
now  and  then  to  steady  Marcia  Haddon,  who  sat  op- 
posite, swaying  weakly  against  the  rude  jolting  of  the 
vehicle  on  the  rough  mountain  roads.  His  hand  was 
light,  gentle,  quickly  withdrawn.  The  wagon  wheels, 
creaking  and  groaning,  sent  their  protest  now  up 
against  the  mountain  side  as  they  jolted  onward. 
The  wagon,  tilting  and  rocking,  carried  on.  Now  and 
again  the  long  shrouded  object  rolled  horribly  from 
one  side  to  the  other.  On  one  side  it  met  a  hand  firm 
and  strong — this  sodden  body  of  James  Haddon,  now 
gone  to  his  accounting.  Upon  the  other  side  it  met  a 
hand  which  steadied  it  gently — the  hand  of  a  woman 
who,  all  her  unhappy  life,  had  never  been  otherwise 
than  gentle  with  him. 


BOOK  IV 


CHAPTER  XXI 


THE    FURRIN    WOMAN 


THE  new  doctor  from  the  new  town  on  the 
new  railroad  came  not  only  once,  but  many 
times  to  call  upon  Marcia  Haddon,  seriously 
ill  at  Granny  Williams'  home.  A  high  fever  held  her 
by  the  time  she  had  arrived  in  the  night  after  that 
terrible  day  upon  the  river.  By  the  next  day  delirium 
had  its  will  of  her.  The  kindly  inhabitants  called 
it  "chills  and  fever."  It  was  a  chilled  heart,  a  fevered 
mind. 

Granny  Williams  was  wholly  contemptuous  of  the 
new  doctor,  or  of  any  doctor.  It  was  Joslin  who 
insisted  that  the  old-woman  remedies  should  not  be 
trusted,  who  sent  for  the  only  modern  physician  thus 
far  known  in  that  portion  of  the  world.  The  presence 
of  the  latter  was  accepted  only  grudgingly  by  Granny 
Williams,  who  insisted  that  camomile  and  boneset  was 
all  the  "furrin  woman"  needed.  But  the  new  doctor, 
himself  a  voice  in  the  wilderness,  was  a  young  man 
who  understood  many  things. 

hen  after  many  days  his  patient  had  worn  out 
the  fever  and  showed  certain  signs  of  convalescence, 

233 


THE  WAY  OUT 

she  lay  a  long  time  with  mind  apparently  a  blank, 
inquiring  nothing  as  to  her  surroundings,  and  equally 
incurious  in  regard  to  herself. 

"Where  is  he?"  she  asked  at  length,  upon  one  day 
when  Joslin  had  come  to  find  how  she  was  progress- 
ing. She  had  come,  weakly,  to  look  forward  to  these 
daily  visits,  although  often  she  did  not  speak  to  him 
at  all. 

"We  cared  for  him,"  answered  he.  "When  you  are 
well  enough  we'll  show  you.  We  sent  out  a  man  with 
a  telegram.    We  have  word  for  you." 

She  shook  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side. 
"Poor  boy,"  she  said,  "poor  boy!  Well,  it's  over  for 
him.  I  wish  it  were  for  me."  For  the  time  she  did 
not  speak  further. 

But  slowly,  under  inexorable  nature's  rule,  the  duty 
of  living  came  forward  to  her  consciousness,  insistent, 
imperative.  Marcia  Haddon,  little  by  little,  under- 
took once  more  to  knit  the  raveled  sleeve.  The 
strangeness  of  her  new  surroundings  proved  of  itself 
a  benefit.  The  faces  that  she  saw  about  her,  kindly 
as  they  were,  were  faces  as  of  another  world.  Those 
who  attended  her  spoke  a  language  which  at  first  she 
scarcely  understood.  For  days  she  lay  and  looked  at 
them  with  not  even  a  smile  upon  her  face  to  thank 
them,  passive,  incurious,  but  after  a  time  observing  and 
questioning. 

"She's  powerful  weak,"  said  old  Granny  Williams 
234 


THE   FURRIN  WOMAN 

to  a  neighbor,  shaking  her  head  now  and  then.  "Them 
furrin  women  kain't  stand  nothin\  To  look  at  her 
ye'd  think  she  was  the  one  that  got  drownded  in  the 
Narrers,  not  him. 

"They  say  he  was  moughty  rich,"  she  continued. 
"They  say  he  owned  all  the  land  acrosst  the  river  from 
here,  an'  him  an'  his  Company  owns  half  of  Hell-fer- 
Sartin,  an'  most  on  Newfound.  Well,  I  reckon  it 
won't  do  him  no  sight  of  good  right  now — nor  her 
neither,  onlessen  she  gets  pearter  right  soon.  If  she 
hain't  better  in  a  week  or  so,  we'd  e'en  about  as  well 
measure  her." 

But  they  did  not  measure  Marcia  Haddon  for  her 
grave  clothes.  She  began  again  to  take  up  the  affairs 
of  life.  She  found  the  sympathy  of  all  these  people 
of  a  very  gentle  sort.  The  secretiveness  and  the 
apathy  of  the  Cumberlands,  taking  life  as  it  came,  were 
extended  to  the  stranger  as  well.  But  all  her  life  it 
had  been  Marcia  Haddon's  trait  to  observe  rather  than 
to  talk;  and  for  a  long  time  she  only  observed — and 
pondered  what  she  saw. 

These  strange  people — how  poor  they  were,  how 
very  poor !  Their  furniture  was  mostly  made  by  hand 
— these  chairs,  their  legs  stubbed  by  an  age  of  wear 
on  the  puncheon  floors,  went  back  a  generation  or 
more.  She  rested  in  a  corded  bed,  made  of  walnut 
in  rude  mountain  workmanship.  The  table  upon  which 
she  saw  daily  meals  served  was  hewn  out  by  a  local 

235 


THE  WAY  OUT 

carpenter.  The  spinning  wheel  whose  whirring  she 
heard  in  another  room  was,  as  Granny  Williams  as- 
sured her,  made  by  her  own  father  in  an  earlier  time. 
"An*  she's  a  good  wheel/'  added  the  old  woman.  "I 
kin  run  her  all  day  an*  she'll  never  onct  throw  her 
band."  The  little  flax  wheel  with  its  more  strident 
hum  also  was  an  heirloom  carefully  preserved. 

And  all  these  people  were  so  busy,  so  under  the 
constant  necessity  of  individual,  personal  labor.  The 
skeining  and  the  hanking  of  yarns,  the  winding  of 
bobbins  for  the  looms,  the  repair  of  the  loom  sleighs  by 
the  ancient  who  made  a  specialty  in  such  matters — all 
these  things  spoke  of  a  day  entirely  foreign  to  all 
the  experience  of  Marcia  Haddon,  who,  born  into  easy 
circumstances,  in  another  country,  never  had  known 
real  labor. 

There  was  no  cook-stove  in  Granny  Williams'  house 
— the  old  pot-hooks  at  the  fireside,  the  crane  and  its 
pendent  hooks,  the  heavy  cast-iron  oven,  the  brass 
kettles,  an  infrequent  copper  vessel  of  this  sort  or  that 
— all  these  went  back  to  another  day.  The  "furrin 
woman"  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  saw  what  was 
the  responsibility  of  a  home,  saw  first  the  beauty  of 
personal  industry. 

Time  was  coming  on  now  for  the  hoeing  of  the 
corn  planted  on  these  steep  hillsides.  From  her  win- 
dow Marcia  Haddon  could  see  women  working  along 
with  the  men,  children  as  well.     And  then  Granny 

236 


THE   FURRIN  WOMAN 

Williams  would  tell  her  of  her  own  young  wifehood, 
when  with  her  husband  she  had  started  in  to  clear  their 
farm,  and  had  helped  in  digging  out  the  stumps  and 
in  logging  up  the  felled  trees  for  the  burning.  She 
spoke  with  pride  of  granddaughters  of  her  own  able 
to  do  as  good  a  day  at  the  hoe  as  "ary  man." 

ve  got  a  hundred  and  twenty-two  children  an* 
grandchildren,"  said  Granny  Williams  with  much 
pride,  "or  else  it's  two  hundred  and  twenty-six — I 
don't  remember  which.  I  could  have  tolt  it  all  right 
a  while  back,  but  someone  made  off  with  my  fam'ly 
stick — I  had  it  all  notched  on  a  stick.  Ever'  time  a 
grandbaby  was  borned  I  cut  a  notch  on  that  stick,  an' 
I  lef  it  out  at  the  woodshed.  I  reckon  somebody 
taken  it  fer  a  poker.  How  many  children  have  ye  got, 
Ma'am?" 

"None,"  said  Marcia  Haddon. 

Granny  Williams  looked  at  her  with  pity,  but  made 
no  comment,  for  this  thing,  to  her  so  deplorable  and 
indeed  so  disgraceful,  was  not  to  be  mentioned  in 
reproach. 

Humoring  the  sick  woman,  she  contented  herself 
with  showing  the  many  articles  about  the  house  which 
she  herself  had  made  with  her  own  hands — counter- 
panes and  quilts,  cloth  woven  on  her  own  hand-loom. 
There  were  a  few  things  which  she  declared  must 
have  come  "acrosst  the  mountings"  ;  that  is  to  say,  they 
must  have  been  brought  in  by  her  ancestors  in  the  first 

237 


THE  WAY  OUT 

migration  over  the  Appalachians.  A  book  or  two — 
strangely  enough,  an  old  Latin  grammar — remained  of 
these  belongings. 

"I  kain't  read  in  none  of  'em,"  admitted  Granny 
Williams.  "Some  of  my  folks  mought  have  been  able 
to  onct,  but  none  of  us  kin  read  or  write. 

"Do  ye  reckon,  Ma'am/'  she  added,  "that  when  the 
railroad  comes  we'll  be  able  to  buy  calico  an'  jeans 
in  the  stores?  Hit's  powerful  slow  weavin'  cloth, 
though  I  will  say  it  wears  longer'n  anything  what  ye 
kin  buy.  .  .  .  How  old  was  ye  when  ye  first  begun  to 
spin.  Ma'am?" 

"I  never  did,"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "I  can't  even 
knit 

"Well,  'pears  like  ye  must  be  powerful  triflin'," 
said  Granny  Williams  candidly,  plying  her  own  needles 
with  renewed  zeal  at  the  moment. 

Marcia  Haddon  looked  at  her  suddenly.  "I  believe 
you're  right,  Granny!"  said  she. 

"That  new  railroad,"  resumed  the  old  lady,  pres- 
ently, "hit's  a-goin'  to  change  a  power  of  things  in 
these  valleys.  I  always  said  that  if  it  actual  come  in 
here,  I  was  a-goin'  to  take  one  ride  on  it  if  it  kilt  me. 
Plenty  of  our  folks  is  a-skeered  to  go  on  the  railroad 
keers.  Now,  thar  was  Preacher  Bonnell — he  went 
Outside,  an'  he  taken  a  ride  on  them  railroad  keers, 
an'  it  liken  to  been  the  eend  on  him.  He  tolt  us  all 
about  it  when  he  come  back. 

238 


THE   FURRIN  WOMAN 

"Preacher  Bonnell  was  a-ridin'  along  in  the  keers 
with  his  haid  outen  the  winder,  an'  he  seen  a  place 
bigger'n  a  house,  a  regular  black  hole  in  the  side  of 
the  hill,  an'  the  engyne  an*  all  them  keers  a-headin' 
right  straight  fer  it.  He  knowed  in  a  minute  the 
Devil  had  a  holt  of  the  engyne,  an'  that  this  here  was 
the  Bottomless  Pit  whar  he  was  a-goin'  to  take  all 
them  people.  Preacher  Bonnell,  he  up  an'  give  one 
whoop,  an'  off  he  jumped.  He  rolled  down  on  the 
bank  more'n  fifty  feet,  an*  when  he  come  to  he  looked 
up,  an'  thar  wasn't  nary  sign  of  the  engyne  or  them 
keers !  They  had  went  right  inter  the  Pit,  like  he  had 
knowed  they  would.  Preacher  Bonnell,  he  said  it  war 
a  leadin'  to  him  nuvver  to  go  on  no  more  railroad 
keers.  He  says  something  about  that  every  sermon 
he  preaches  nowadays.  He  warns  us  all  agin  them 
keers.  I  don't  see  how  ye  ever  had  the  heart,  Ma'am, 
to  ride  on  them  things,  weak  an'  triflin'  as  ye  seem 
mostly.  Fact  is,  what  made  ye  come  in  here  anyways, 
Ma'am?" 

"It  was  my  husband — you  know  he  was  one  of  the 
officers  of  the  Company  that  owns  so  much  land 
around  here.  I  had  met  Mr.  Joslin  before.  He  went 
to  New  York  with  us  two  years  ago." 

"Well,    ye'll    see   a   moughty   big   building   up   on 

yon  hill,  Ma'am,"  said  Granny  Williams  with  pride. 

.\  y,  he's  a-buildin'  it.     Hit  sartin  is  bigger'n  ary- 

thing  ye  ever  seen  in  New  York.     Hit's  bigger'n  ary 

239 


THE  WAY  OUT 

church  house  ever  was  knowed  in  these  mountings.  I 
reckon  it  was  part  of  the  boarding  they  had  in  that 
load  of  lumber  they  brung  yore  man  in  on. 

"But  Davy,"  she  went  on,  "he's  changed  a  heap, 
these  last  two  years.  Used  to  be  as  natteral  fer  him 
to  swear  as  to  take  a  drink — an*  in  buildin'  a  house 
swearin'  comes  natteral  to  ary  man.  But  thar  hain't 
nary  man  heerd  Davy  Joslin  say  one  cuss  word  sence 
he  come  back  from  the  North.  All  the  trouble  he's 
had  with  his  wife,  too Ye  know  about  his  wife?" 

"I  knew  he  was  married." 

"He  was,  an'  he  hain't,"  said  Granny  Williams. 
"Well,  Meliss',  she  tuk  an*  up  an'  went  over  to  the 
railroad  an'  seen  the  new  lawyer  that's  come  in  thar, 
an'  last  term  of  co'te  she  got  her  a  divorce — that's 
what  she  done.  That  was  a  few  weeks  ago,  while  ye 
was  sick." 

"Divorce?    He  didn't  tell  me " 

"That  must  of  been  a  right  interim*  term  of  co'te, 
Ma'am.  Thar  was  only  two  men  kilt,  an'  this  here 
one  divorce — but  it's  the  fust  divorce  ever  knowed  in 
this  country.  They  say  he  didn't  make  no  furse  at 
all  about  her  leavin'  of  him.  Somebody  was  a-tellin' 
me  that  that  leaves  her  free  to  marry  agin  if  she  wants 
to,  or  him  either.  Nuwer  was  such  a  thing  knowed  in 
these  mountings  afore,  fur  as  I  can  tell — there  shorely 
wasn't  nuwer  such  a  thing  knowed  among  my  people, 
nor  my  dad's  people,  nor  my  mammy's  neither. 

240 


THE   FURRIN   WOMAN 

"Of  course,  they  didn't  have  no  children — er  only 
leastways  two  puny  ones,  that  died.  An*  ye  said  ye 
never  had  no  children  at  all,  Ma'am?" 

"No,"  said  Marcia  Haddon,  her  face  flushed. 

"Well,  ye  look  to  me  right  triflin',"  said  Granny 
Williams  with  calm  candor.  "Ye  kain't  knit,  ye  kain't 
spin,  an'  I  reckon  ye  couldn't  hoe  corn  noways.  Maybe 
the  Lord  knows  His  business — what  could  a  womern. 
like  ye  do  with  children  if  she  had  'em? 

"I  was  merried  when  I  was  sixteen  year  an'  eight 
month  old,"  she  ran  on.  "I  had  eighteen  children 
that  lived,  an*  three  that  died.  Like  I  said,  T  could  of 
tolt  ye  how  many  grandchildren  I  had  in  all,  ef  some- 
one hadn't  been  so  keerless  with  that  air  countin'  stick 
of  mine. 

"Air  ye  goin'  to  merry  agin  arter  a  while  maybe?" 
she  added.  "Some  does."  She  spoke  in  a  wholly 
matter-of-fact  way. 

"You  mustn't  talk  to  me  about  such  things, 
Granny,"  said  Marcia  Haddon,  a  faint  flush  still  on 
her  cheek. 

"How  comes  I  mustn't?"  rejoined  Granny.  "Hain't 
yore  man  dead  ?" 

"I  know  you  mean  it  well" — Marcia  Haddon  reached 
out  a  hand  to  the  gnarled  hand  of  the  old  woman  who 
sat  close  by.  "All  my  life — it's  been  so  different, 
that's  all." 

"Davy  tolt  us  something  about  them  things,"  said 
241 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  old  woman  gravely.  "I'm  content  to  live  right 
here  the  way  we  always  done — leastways,  I  will  be  if 
I  ever  git  to  take  jest  one  ride  on  them  railroad  keers." 

"Yes,  they'll  come  through  here  before  long,"  said 
Marcia  Haddon.  "I'm  not  sure  I'm  glad — usually 
when  a  railroad  comes  into  a  new  country  it  changes 
it  so  much." 

"Hit's  had  changes  a-plenty  a'ready,  seems  to  me," 
said  Granny.  "Thar  hain't  been  a  killin'  in  here  fer 
two  year ;  sence  the  big  meetin'  down  at  the  mill  house 
nobody's  been  ridin'  fer  nobody  else,  an'  nobody  layin' 
out — the  old  fam'ly  diffikilties  seemed  to  jest  come  to 
stop  right  suddent.  An'  as  fer  liquor — why,  of  course 
ye  know  here,  Ma'am,  everybody  makes  his  own  liquor, 
as  much  as  he  wants.  An'  now  ye  kain't  hardly  git  a 
bottle  of  liquor  in  lessen  four  er  five  hours,  an'  I 
declar',  ye  have  to  look  around  a  heap  to  find  that! 
How  come  that?  Well,  it  was  Davy  Joslin  done  that 
— him  an'  his  school.  Like  ye,  I  dunno  if  I'm  glad 
er  not." 

"He's  a  good  man,"  said  her  listener  vaguely. 

"Yes,  an'  odd  as  Adam's  off  ox.  Kain't  nobody 
explain  Davy  noways.  While  ago,  couple  of  year 
back,  he  was  called  to  be  a  preacher.  Then  he  goes 
Outside  fer  a  couple  of  year,  an'  comes  back,  an* — 
ye  never  seen  sech  a  change  in  no  human  man  in  all 
yer  borned  life,  Ma'am — his  clothes  is  different,  he 
walks  different,  an'  he  talks  different.     Kain't  hardly 

242 


THE   FURRIN   WOMAN 

nobody  understand  him  no  more.  But  he  hain't  done 
preached  onct!  But  everybody  knows  that  if  Davy 
says  he's  a-goin'  to  run  that  school,  it'll  run,  some 
time, 

"Ye  see,"  she  went  on,  "accordin'  to  Davy's  count, 
it's  the  Lord  that  does  things." 

"Maybe  he's  right,"  said  Marcia  Haddon  slowly. 
"Which  one  of  us  shall  say?" 

"Well,"  said  Granny  Williams  after  a  while,  thrust- 
ing her  needles  through  her  ball  of  yarn,  "Ef  I  was 
ye,  I  wouldn't  bother  much  about  nothin'  fer  a  time 
yit.  Ye  got  plenty  of  money  anyways — yore  man  was 
plumb  rich,  accordin'  to  all  I  hear.  Like  enough  he 
done  lef  ye  a  thousand  dollar,  Ma'am?  Davy's  tolt 
me  about  how  ye  an'  him  lived.  But  ontel  ye  git  ready 
to  go  home,  Ma'am,  ye're  welcome  here,  jest  as  wel- 
come as  the  flowers,  an*  as  long  as  ye  like. 

"When  ye  kin  begin  to  walk  around  a  bit,"  she 
concluded,  "we'll  take  ye  an'  show  ye  whar  we  buried 
yore  man.  Hit's  up  in  the  old  buryin'  ground  on  the 
hill — my  folks  is  buried  thar,  an'  my  daddy's  folks, 
years  an'  years  back,  an'  plenty  of  others — fifty  or 
maybe  a  hundred  year,  fer's  I  kin  tell.  Hit's  right 
qu'ite  an'  purty  up  thar." 


CHAPTER  XXII 


WHEN  GHOSTS  ARISE 


MARCIA  HADDON'S  lawyers  wrote  with 
greater  and  greater  insistence  from  New 
York,  asking  her  return  to  care  for  the 
matters  of  the  estate  of  James  Haddon,  but  she  still 
shrank  from  the  thought  of  going  back  to  the  old 
associations.  A  strange  apathy  encompassed  her,  a 
leaden  indifference  to  life,  as  though  all  were  ended 
for  her  as  well  as  for  the  unfortunate  lying  yonder 
on  the  hill.  She  found  nothing  in  life  to  interest  her, 
to  offer  her  any  hope,  to  excite  in  her  any  ambition, 
"I'm  useless,  useless !"  said  she  to  herself  more  than 
once.  She  held  her  own  life  in  review  now,  day  after 
day,  feeling  herself  unworthy  and  forsaken,  herself  too 
merciless  a  critic  of  herself. 

Joslin  she  saw  frequently.  His  visits  were  quiet, 
unobtrusive,  almost  apologetic.  He  was  very  sad,  and 
always  taciturn,  but  she  often  looked  forward  to  his 
coming  with  something  to  ask  him,  something  to 
discuss. 

"I  feel  so  worthless  here !"  she  broke  out,  suddenly, 
to  him  one  evening,  as  she  sat  in  her  chair,  looking  out 

244 


WHEN  GHOSTS  ARISE 

across  the  blue  hills  of  the  valley  below  them.    "It's 

time  for  me  to  be  going  home,  I  suppose But  I 

don't  think  there  ever  was  a  woman  so  worthless  in 
all  the  world,  nor  one  so  much  alone.  I  don't  want 
to  go  back.    Granny  Williams " 

He  sat  silent,  looking  across  the  forests  as  they  lay 
in  the  twilight. 

"Seme  day,"  he  said  slowly,  after  a  time,  "will 

I  ide  out  with  me,  Mrs.  Haddon,  into  these  hills, 

with  one  of  our  women  here?    I'll  show  you  things, 

Ma'am,  you  never  thought  could  exist  in  all  the  world. 

"Do  you  know  what  I've  been  doing,  Ma'am?"  he 
went  on.  "I  mean  since  I  came  back  here?  At  night, 
when  I  have  time,  I'm  teaching  school — I've  begun 
already." 

He  smiled  at  her  whh  his  wide,  pleasant  smile. 
"My  first  scholar,  Ma'am,  is  old  Absalom  Gannt.  He's 
the  man  that  killed  my  father — or  made  him  kill 
himself.  He's  the  leader  of  the  Gannt  faction. 
There's  been  war  between  the  Gannts  and  Joslins  long 
as  anybody  can  remember  in  these  mountains.  Well, 
Absalom  was  my  first  scholar!" 

She  only  looked  at  him  quietly.  "What  made  him 
come?"  said  she  at  length. 

"You  measure  your  own  ignorance  of  these  people 
by  that  question,"  said  he.  "I've  got  a  night  class  of 
twenty  people,  every  one  of  them  over  forty-five — 
men  and  women  both — some  women  with  babies  in 

245 


THE  WAY  OUT 

their  arms.  They  don't  know  how  to  read  or  write. 
They're  learning  their  letters,  Ma'am— like  little 
children !  What's  the  difference  whether  we're  happy 
or  not?  It's  no  consequence  if  we've  got  something 
to  do.    Don't  you  think  there's  much  to  be  done,  here  ?" 

"Children?"  said  Marcia  Haddon  vaguely— "Old 
Granny  Williams  said " 

"I  had  two  children.  I  was  glad  they  died.  But 
I'm  trying  to  make  ways  for  other  children  to  grow 
up  fit  to  live." 

She  sat  for  a  long  time,  her  hands  idly  in  her 
lap,  her  pale  face  turned  steadily  out  toward  the  enigma 
of  these  hills. 

"Spartan!"  she  exclaimed.  "All  Spartans!  And  I 
had  so  much !  They  tell  me  my  husband's  estate  will 
be  about  two  million  dollars." 

David  Joslin  smiled.  "It  must  be  fine,"  said  he, 
"to  know  where  your  next  meal's  going  to  come  from. 
I've  hardly  ever  known  that." 

"Granny  Williams  said You  see,  I  have  no 

children  of  my  own.  And  here — why,  here  are  hun- 
dreds waiting." 

He  was  looking  far  over  the  hills. 

"Do  you  suppose,"  she  went  on  after  a  time,  as  he 
remained  silent,  "do  you  suppose  if  I  built  another 
building  up  on  the  hill,  with  a  part  of  this  money  he 
made  out  of  this  very  country — if  I  built  one  building 
for  girls,  dormitories,  you  know,  or  class  rooms — big 

246 


WHEN  GHOSTS  ARISE 

enough   for  two  or  three  hundred  children — would 
there  be  that  many?" 

He  smiled.  "Many  thousands,"  he  replied.  "They'd 
come  from  fifty  miles  around,  a  hundred  miles — every- 
one begging,  like  these  old  people  in  my  night  classes, 
to  learn  how  to  read  and  write.  They  want  knowledge, 
Ma'am !  They  want  up — they  want  out !  If  you  could 
help  in  that — I  don't  think  you'd  feel  'worthless,'  ever 
again!  Whether  you  ever  did  that  or  not,  you 
mustn't  ever  say  that  word  again.  At  least,  you've 
given  one  man,  once  hopeless,  his  hope  and  his  chance 
— and  his  dreams,  we'll  say.  I've  had  quite  some 
dreams,  you  see." 

"Fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars  would  go  quite 
a  way  toward  making  a  building  of  that  sort?" 

He  smiled. 

"There's  not  been  fifty  dollars  put  into  our  build- 
ing, I  suppose,  Ma'am,"  said  he.  "Twenty  thousand 
dollars — that's  more  money  than  there  is  in  all  this 
county.  But  there's  twenty  thousand  millions  in 
sight  of  where  we  sit." 

She  turned  to  him  contritely — "It's  plain  enough 
what  my  husband  and  his  Company  wanted  to  do  with 
these  people — they  wanted  to  steal  away  their  very 
birthright,  before  they  were  wise  enough  to  know  its 
value.  It  wouldn't  be  charity  for  me — it  wouldn't 
be  even  a  gift.  It  wouldn't  be  a  fraction  of  what  you 
have  owing  to  you  from  me  and  mine. 

247 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"And  it  might  be  done  too,"  she  went  on  shrewdly. 
"With  the  Johnston  and  Bulkley  and  Oddingham 
holdings,  my  husband's  estate  would  pretty  nearly 
control  the  Land  Company's  affairs — they  would  vote 
with  me,  I'm  sure.  So  maybe,  you  see" — smiling  for 
almost  the  first  time  in  all  these  weeks — "it  was  in  my 
destiny  to  come  here?" 

"It  may  have  been,"  said  David  Joslin  simply. 

She  ran  on  eagerly  now.  "We'll  have  a  church 
up  there  too,  some  time.  Couldn't  you  be  the  preacher 
some  time,  Mr.  Joslin?  And  of  course  you'll  be  presi- 
dent of  the  college.  Listen  at  me  talking!  I'm  just 
like  a  child. 

"But  you  don't  answer,"  she  said,  looking  at  him 
keenly.  He  was  staring  out  steadily.  Gaunt,  with 
sunken  eyes  and  prominent  cheekbones,  worn  and 
drawn  by  the  long  hours  of  labor  bodily  and  mental, 
David  Joslin  was  not  a  handsome  man,  nor  did  even 
physical  well-being  seem  vouchsafed  to  him  now.  He 
was  sad,  very  sad.  It  seemed  to  her  she  had  never  seen 
a  face  so  sad  as  his. 

"Of  course,"  she  reiterated,  "you'll  be  the  presi- 
dent.    You'll  have  to  preach — no  one  else  could." 

He  turned  to  her  and  half  raised  a  hand.  "You 
mustn't,"  said  he.  "That's  my  school — yes.  But  I 
can't  be  its  president." 

"Why?    What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Joslin?" 

"You  don't  understand.     No,  I  reckon  not." 
248 


WHEN   GHOSTS  ARISE 

"No."  She  shook  her  head.  "You  start  a  thing 
and  don't  finish  it — is  that  the  plan  ?  And  this  the  very 
thing  in  all  your  life  which  outweighed  everything 
else?  And  you've  got  me  to  thinking  it  was  a  won- 
derful thing  that  you  had  planned.  You'd  drop  it 
now?" 

She  was  resting  her  chin  on  her  hands,  now  white 
and  thin,  supported  on  Granny  Williams'  cane.  Now 
she  lifted  her  head  and  half  turned  away.  He  caught 
the  significance  of  the  act,  and  it  made  his  gaunt  face 
paler. 

"Well,"  replied  he  quietly,  "now  perhaps  you  can 
see  why  I'm  not  happy." 

She  looked  at  him  so  deeply  regretful  that  he  pulled 
together  with  a  resolve  obviously  painful. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  me.  That's  of  no 
importance.  But  if  you  are  interested  in  my  school 
and  my  people,  then  I  do  become  important  in  one 
way.     Shall  I  have  to  tell  you  about  myself  ?" 

"Go  on,"  said  she,  nodding.     "Yes." 

So  then,  simply,  baldly,  unsparing  of  himself,  he 
did  go  on  and  tell  her  about  himself  and  his  life — the 
hopelessness  of  it,  the  narrowness,  the  meagerness,  the 
despair  of  it  all,  the  tenfold  shackles  of  misery  and 
ignorance  which  had  held  him  and  all  his  so  long. 
Then  he  told  her  of  his  own  marriage ;  and  of  the  end 
of  it. 

"I  don't  wonder  you  are  unhappy,"  said  she  slowly 
249 


THE  WAY  OUT 

at  last.     "But  still  I  don't  know  why  you  should  not 
go  on  with  your  school  as  you  planned." 

"I  reckon  I'll  have  to  tell  you  all  the  rest/'  said 
David  Joslin  desperately  after  a  time.  "I  didn't  think 
I  ever  could." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked  simply. 

"You  want  te  know  what  is  my  stumbling  block? 
I'll  tell  you — it  was  a  woman." 

"You  mean  your  wife?  But  I  don't  think  I  ought 
to  discuss  that."    She  half  rose. 

But  she  could  not  stop  him  now  as  he  went  on 
stumblingly,  unalterably. 

"Oh,  no!  Not  that  woman — my  wife,"  said  he. 
"Another." 

"You  needn't  tell  me  anything  more,  I  think,"  said 
she.  "Are  you  going  to  tell  me  just  some  common 
story  about  yourself  and  some  woman?" 

"That's  just  precisely  what  I'm  going  to  do!"  said 
he.  "I'm  going  to  kill  all  the  respect  for  me  you've 
ever  had.  Then  you'll  know  why  I  can't  be  president 
of  my  own  college.  I'll  have  to  go  through  fire  before 
I  can.    I'm  not  good  enough.    Now  then  you  can  see." 

"Who  was  she?    When ?" 

"You  ought  to  know,  certainly.  It  was  your  hus- 
band  " 

She  sat  up  suddenly,  her  eyes  flashing.  "Thai 
woman !" 

"So  then  you  knew  her?" 
250 


WHEN   GHOSTS   ARISE 

"Why  should  I  not?"  rejoined  Marcia  Haddon,  now 
all  aflame.  "Did  she  not  ruin  my  married  life,  as 
much  of  it  as  there  was  to  ruin?  Didn't  all  the  town 
know  about  her,  and  him  —and  me  ?  Of  all  the  women 
in  the  world  I  ought  to  hate,  that's  the  one!" 

"And  of  all  the  men  in  the  world  you  will  hate, 
I'm  the  one,"  said  David  Joslin.  "But  I  can't  lie  to 
you  now.  My  conscience  made  me  a  coward  for  a 
while,  but  it's  my  way  to  go  on  through." 

"How  could  you  have  known  that  woman?  When 
did  you  meet?" 

"Twice,"  said  David  Joslin.  "Once  was  at  the  din- 
ner of  the  Company;  the  next  in  the  morning  at  her 
own  rooms.     That  was  twice,  in  New  York." 

She  looked  at  him,  utter  scorn  upon  her  face.  Her 
cheeks  at  last  had  color. 

"Don't  be  too  harsh  if  you  can  help  it,"  he  began 
once  more,  half  raising  his  hand.  "Don't  suspect  too 
much   in   some  ways.      In   others  you   can't   suspect 

enough.     You  don't  understand Well,  I  was  a 

fool.  I  was  tempted.  The  Evil  One  followed  me  right 
along  all  the  time  from  the  day  I  left  these  mountains. 
He  was  right  at  my  side  every  minute,  though  I  didn't 
know  it.  I  reckon  it  was  you  that  kept  him  away 
from  me,  Ma'am.  For  me,  you  have  been  the  power 
of  light.  If  I  had  stayed  right  close  to  you  I'd  never 
had  such  temptation.  The  Evil  One  had  his  own 
devices  with  me — it  was — it  was  the  temptation  of  St 

251 


THE  WAY  OUT 

Anthony,  Ma'am.  I  can't  well  talk.  Can  you  under- 
stand?" 

"It's  not  necessary  for  me  to  understand!"  said 
Marcia  Haddon  in  white  scorn.  "I  understand  enough 
already.  That  woman  was  my  husband's  mistress — 
everyone  knew  it  except  you — or  did  you  know  it?" 

He  turned  upon  her  a  face  now  suddenly  so  hor- 
rified in  its  suffering  that  even  she  relented. 

"I've — I've  been  very  ignorant,  Ma'am,"  said  he. 
"I've  known  very  little.  I — didn't  know  that.  I 
thought  she  was  very  beautiful  and  good.  Oh,  not 
so  beautiful  as  you,  not  so  good — but  what  could  I 
know  about  such  things?  I've  never  met  but  three 
women  in  my  life,  you  might  say.  Well,  you  know 
the  three,  and  you're  one  of  the  three.  You  see,  I 
didn't  know  much  about  women,  that's  all.  Well, 
what  she  told  me  was  true." 

"But  surely  you  must  have  known " 

"How  could  I  know?  How  much  experience  had 
I?  How  far  had  my  education  gone?  I've  met  three 
women  in  all  my  life,  I  said.  I've  had  two  years  of 
school.  Well,  that's  all.  That's  my  life.  It  isn't 
much.     I  never  knew  much  of — what  you  say." 

"Often?"  asked  Marcia  Haddon— "How  could  it 
have  been  often  that  you  met  her?" 

"Twice,  Ma'am,"  said  David  Joslin.  "The  last 
time  to  say  good-by.  That  was  up  at  Strattonville, 
not  so  very  long  ago.     If  it  hadn't  been  for  that,  I 

252 


WHEN   GHOSTS  ARISE 

reckon  I'd  have  gone  on  and  finished  my  college  course. 
I  reckon  maybe  if  I  hadn't  met  her  then  I  could  have 
been  a  preacher  some  time — I  could  have  been  presi- 
dent of  this  school — I  could  have  had  my  life's  ambi- 
tion and  my  hope.  You  say  she  ruined  your  life. 
Didn't  it  come  to  the  same  thing  with  me?  But  I 
can't  call  her  bad — surely  it  wasn't  her  fault  in  the 
least.  I  reckon  it  was  the  fault  of  life.  But  that  was 
why  I  came  back  so  soon.  And  that  was  why  I  met 
you  when  you  came  in.  And  you — you  are  a  woman 
too.  .  .  .  But  of  another  sort,  I  suppose.   Better " 

"Did  you  know,"  she  said  to  him  after  a  time,  "that 
the  Polly  Pendleton  Company  was  backed  by  my  hus- 
band's money  all  along?  He  was  out  on  the  road  for 
weeks  at  a  time — he  practically  abandoned  me.  Well, 
that  was  my  husband !" 

"And  I've  lost  every  honest  dream  of  all  my  life 
because  of  that  same  woman,"  he  spoke  after  a  time. 
"She  herself  tried  to  tell  me,  and  I  wouldn't  believe 
her.    Well,  you've  made  it  easier. 

"Not  that  it  wasn't  over  anyhow,"  he  added,  with 
not  the  slightest  trace  of  self-pride  in  his  words. 
"Ma'am,  let  me  tell  you  something — do  you  see  that 
college  house  of  ours  up  on  the  hill  ?  Well,  under  the 
cornerstone  of  that  building  there  are  two  things,  and 
I  put  them  both  there  myself.  One  is  my  copy  of  old 
John  Calvin's  Institutes,  and  the  other  is  a  picture  of 
Polly  Pendleton.     That's  a  right  odd  combination, 

253 


THE  WAY  OUT 

isn't  it,  to  go  under  the  cornerstone  of  a  college? 
Well,  the/re  both  there. 

"So  now  you  know.  As  for  me,  I've  got  to  finish 
my  education  before  I'm  big  enough  and  good  enough 
to  teach  or  preach  up  there.  It  was  you — not  that 
woman — made  me  feel  that.  It  was  you  that  taught 
me  how  big  and  grand  and  sweet  the  world  is,  how 
much  there  is  to  learn,  how  much  there  is  to  do.  It 
was  you  who  have  shown  me  how  far  I  have  to  go. 
I  reckon  it'll  be  over  hot  plowshares,  Ma'am.  I've  got 
my  ordeal  yet  ahead.  May  justice  and  not  mercy  be 
mine  in  my  ordeal. 

"You've  made  it  easier,"  he  added  after  a  time,  "a 
heap  easier.  It's  only  what  the  girl  herself  was  trying 
to  tell  me — but  I  couldn't  believe  it.  Another  man's? 
No — I  don't  share  a  woman  with  any  other  man  on 
earth.  What's  mine  is  mine.  What's  his  may  be  his. 
Let  him  rest  up  there  on  the  hill.  She's  dead,  too,  I 
reckon,  now.  But  you  see,  I  didn't  know.  I'm  glad 
you  told  me,  Ma'am." 

"Don't  call  me  'Ma'am' !"  exclaimed  Marcia  Haddon 
suddenly.  "I  hate  that  word!"  Without  any  expla- 
nation, she  rose  and  left  him.  She  had  seen  the  un- 
veiling of  a  stark  human  life,  and  had  begun  to  meas- 
ure back  her  own  life,  her  husband's,  with  this  whose 
story  she  now  had  heard.  Hot  plowshares?  Why, 
yes,  if  need  be.  But  that  was  his  ordeal,  and  one  that 
he  had  earned.     Were  men  indeed  all  alike? 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

GRANNY   WILLIAMS     NARRATIONS 

DAVID  JOSLIN  did  not  come  to  renew  his 
invitation  to  Marcia  Haddon  to  ride  into 
the  mountains.  She  saw  him  no  more.  Nor 
did  she  herself  even  yet  keep  her  oft-renewed  promise 
to  depart  at  once  for  the  North.  Moody  and  silent, 
aloof  and  unhappy,  this  passed  from  one  resolve  to 
another  until  one  day  Granny  Williams,  by  chance, 
offered  a  means  for  carrying  out  her  own  self-formed 
plan  of  a  visit  deeper  into  the  hills. 

"I  sartinly  would  enj'y  it,  child,  fer  *o  go  back  in 
thar  a  ways  with  ye,"  said  Granny.  "Three  or  four 
of  my  boys  lives  up  in  Redbird,  an*  I  hain't  been  in 
thar  fer  a  long  time.  We  could  ride  up  in  one  day 
an'  stay  a  month,  fer  as  that,  if  we  wanted." 

"Aren't  you  afraid  to  go?"  asked  Marcia  Haddon, 
hesitating,  knowing  that  the  old  lady  would  never  see 
her  eightieth  birthday  again. 

"Afeerd?  Why  should  I  be  afeerd,  womern?  I 
reckon  I'll  never  see  the  day  when  I'll  be  afeerd  to 
ride  a  mewel  that  fer  an'  back,  if  I  want  ter."  And, 
indeed,  when  on  the  following  day  they  embarked  for 

255 


THE  WAY  OUT 

their  journey,  the  old  dame  herself  sat  carelessly,  with 
one  skinny  knee  across  the  horn  of  her  man's  saddle, 
thrust  almost  up  into  her  face  as  she  perched,  a  bag 
on  one  arm  and  a  basket  on  the  other,  and  smoked  her 
pipe  in  perfect  contentment  as  she  rode. 

"Ye  like  enough  don't  know  much  about  mewels," 
said  she,  "bein'  a  furrin  womern.  Mewels  is  best  fer 
the  mountings.  They'll  just  walk  along  if  ye  leave 
'em  be.  All  ye  got  to  do  is  to  foller  right  behind  me, 
an*  keep  yore  beast  a-walkin'  right  peart." 

The  full  foliage  of  the  vernal  season  now  covered 

all  the  mountains.     The  stream,  idling  and  loitering, 

broke  into  rapids  over  rock  ledges,  or  swum  out  into 

\  still  pools  under  the  far-flung  fringes  of  the  elms 

beaches.    As  they  rode,  Grannv  Williams  told  the 

story  of  this  place  or  that. 

"Over  in  yander  house,"  she  said,  nodding  her  sun- 
bonnet  in  the  direction  indicated,  "is  a  woman  lives 
that's  got  six  sons,  ary  one  of  'em  over  six  foot  two 
inch  tall.  An'  not  one  of  'em  nuvver  had  a  father.  Old 
times,  folks  that  lived  fer  back  in  couldn't  always  git  a 
preacher  noways.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  they  got  mer- 
ried  some  day  even  yit,  now  the  railroad's  come.  But 
s!  me  a-talkin'  that  way!  I  reckon  I'd  better 
wet  my  finger  an'  touch  the  top  of  my  left  air.  Ye 
see,  Ma'am,  if  ye  wet  yore  finger  an*  rub  the  top  of 
yore  left  air,  that  makes  folks  bite  their  tongue  when 
they  talk  about  ye.    Didn't  ye  know  that  ?    Ye  furrin 

256 


CRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

wimmern   certainly   is   plumb   ignorant,    hain't   ye?" 

"Go  on,"  said  Marcia  Haddon,  chuckling  to  her- 
self.   "Tell  me  some  more,  Granny." 

"Not  much  to  tell  about  these  mountings,  Ma'am — 
nothin'  ever  did  happen  here  much.  Hit's  a  settled 
sort  of  country.  Now,  over  thar  ye  see  that  pile  of 
logs,  like?  That's  whar  Old  Man  Stallings  used  to 
hev  a  barn.  He  never  did  git  no  roof  on  the  barn, 
nohow,  though  fer  thirty  year  he  was  a-plannin'  about 
it.  He  used  to  set  right  thar  on  that  log  jest  below 
the  ridge,  an*  look  at  that  barn,  an'  wish  thar  was  a 
roof  on  it.  He  done  that  fer  thirty  year,  an'  then  he 
died.  So  that's  how  come  the  barn  to  rot  down  that 
way. 

"Now,  over  yander  on  the  creek  is  whar  Preacher 
Bonnell's  pa  used  to  live.  He  was  about  the  fightin'est 
preacher  we  ever  did  have  in  here — always  used  to 
ride  with  a  Bible  an'  a  pistol  an'  a  bottle  of  liquor  in 
his  saddlebags  when  he  was  out  a-preachin'.  One 
day  he  rid  twenty  mile  over  the  mountings  to  New- 
found jest  to  shoot  a  man.  The  co'te  finded  him 
fi  f ty  dollars.  That's  too  much  to  fine  a  preacher.  We 
all  allowed  twenty  dollars'd  been  plenty. 

"Preacher  Bonnell,  he  used  to  have  a  nigger  man 
a-workin'  fer  him — onliest  nigger  ever  was  in  these 
hills,  I  reckon.  We  used  to  have  'em  here  along  atter 
the  war,  but  one  time,  come  'lection,  when  they  was 
a-sellin'  their  votes  fer  two  dollars  each,  the  folks  paid 

257 


THE  WAY  OUT 

em  off  in  counterfeit  money.  That  riled  the  niggers, 
an'  they  done  left. 

"Speakin'  of  old  Preacher. Bonnell,  Ma'am,"  she 
went  on  reminiscently,  "he  was  a  odd  sort  of  man. 
Onct  in  a  while  he'd  sort  of  take  spells,  like.  He 
didn't  speak  to  his  wife  fer  nigh  about  five  year,  one 
time.  He  used  to  shoot  at  a  mark,  and  drink  liquor 
like  all  the  other  men  folks.  One  time  he  bet  eighty- 
four  twists  of  tobacco,  agin  a  new  wagon,  that  he 
could  beat  Tomp  Frame  shootin'  at  a  mark.  Tomp, 
when  Preacher  Bonnell  wasn't  lookin',  he  cut  his  bul- 
let in  two  so  he  couldn't  hit  nothin'.  That's  how  come 
him  to  kill  Tomp  later,  and  git  finded  fifty  dollars. 
Hit  made  him  so  mad  he  couldn't  talk — he  jest  played 
deef  an'  dumb  fer  a  long  time.  One  day  he  set  in  a 
game  of  keerds,  an'  luck  came  his  way,  an'  he  said  right 
out,  afore  he  thought,  'High,  low,  Jack  an'  game,  by 
God!'  Ye  see,  he  wasn't  always  a  preacher.  He 
wasn't  called  ontel  he  was  nigh  about  fifty  year  old,  I 
reckon." 

Her  auditor  turned  away  her  face,  so  that  her  own 
amusement  might  not  be  seen,  and  the  old  lady  rambled 
on,  chewing  at  her  pipe  stem  as  she  rode. 

"Nothin'  nuvver  happens  in  these  hills,  ye  see, 
Ma'am,"  said  she.  "I  hear  tell,  Outside,  of  picturs 
that  moves  jest  like  they  was  alive.  O'  course,  that's 
a  lie.  But  hain't  it  funny  how  many  things  folks  thinks 
up  ?    Now,  we  nuvver  had  no  sich  things  as  that  when 

258 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

I  was  young.  Fact  is,  I  kain't  say  as  I  ever  had  but 
jest  two  kinds  of  amusew^nf.  One  was  to  hear  the 
preacher  tell  about  hell  fire — he  painted  it  up  like  a 
lake  of  red,  with  yellow  around  the  aidge.  Other  was 
a  picture  a  temper'nce  preacher  had  all  done  in  colors, 
showin'  how  a  drunkard's  stomach  looked.  Hit  was 
red,  too,  like  hell.  I  kin  recollect  even  now  about  them 
rs — hell  fire  an*  the  drunkard's  stomach.  We 
never  had  no  other  amusements  but  jest  them.  When 
Old  Man  Bonnell  got  to  a-<fopictin'  hell  fire,  and  shak- 
in'  folks  out  over  that,  time  them  folks  come  fore- 
werge ! 

"Over    yander    is    whar     Old     Mammy     Pierce 

lives "  pointing  to  a  small  cabin  by  the  wayside. 

"She's  a  granny  womern — we  call  'em  granny  wim- 
mern  that  he'ps  folks  when  childrens  comes,  ye  know. 
Her  husband  was  a  sort  of  doctor,  too.  He  didn't  give 
nothin*  but  nux  vomic  very  much.  He  says  nux  vomic 
would  fotch  arything  every  time.  He  done  killed 
ummage  of  the  stomach  with  nux  vomic,  an'  even  ton- 
sils. 

"Now,  jest  beyant  whar  Mammy  Pierce  lives  is  whar 
used  to  be  Bill  Coates'  house — ye  kin  see  whar  it 
burned  down.  Me  an*  my  man  was  a-ridin'  right 
along  here  when  the  house  was  a-burnin',  an',  well, 
air!  Bill  Coates  was  a-settin'  thar  watchin*  it  burn. 
'Sakes  alive,  man !'  says  I  to  him,  'why  don't  ye  put  it 
out?'     'Well,'  says  he,  'I  sont  my  gal  hafe  a  mile  up 

259 


THE  WAY  OUT 

the  creek  to  git  a  pail  of  water,  an'  she  hain't  come 
back  yit.  That  was  more'n  hafe  a  hour  ago.'  Tears 
like  the  gal  stopped  to  talk  with  some  of  the  neighbors 
up  thar  about  how  the  house  was  a-burnin'  down,  an* 
time  she  got  back  it  was  too  late. 

"I  wish'!  we  had  time  to  ride  up  to  Big  Creek, 
Ma'am.  Thar's  a  fine  store  up  thar — travelin'  men 
comes  in  thar  from  the  other  side,  an*  sells  all  sorts  of 
goods  thar.  They  carry  their  sample  things  in  the 
saddlebags  same  as  Old  Preacher  Bonnell  used  to. 

"But  ye  see,  we  kain't  read  an*  write  in  these  mount- 
ings. The  storekeeper,  he  always  has  kep'  his  books 
with  marks,  like,  on  the  boards  of  his  cabin.  He 
makes  a  short  mark,  like,  fer  two  bits,  an'  a  long  one 
fer  four  bits,  an*  he'll  have  some  sort  of  picture  fer 
each  man  that  he's  a-trustin'  out  goods  to.  Sometimes 
he  has  to  make  signs  fer  to  show  what  he's  done  sold. 
A  few  month  ago  Arch  Morrison  come  in,  and  they 
liken  to  have  a  diffikilty  over  his  account.  The  store- 
keeper said  he'd  sold  Archie  a  cheese,  an*  Archie  he 
done  denied  of  it.  'Thar's  a  pictur  of  it,'  says  the 
storekeeper,  an'  sure  enough,  thar  was  a  big,  round 
thing  like  a  cheese.  'Oh,'  says  Archie,  'that  hain't  no 
cheese  I  bought.  That's  a  grindstone.'  'Shore  enough, 
Archie/  says  the  storekeeper,  'shore  enough.  I  done 
fergot  to  put  the  hole  in  it.' 

"No,  times  is  right  qui'te  in  here,  an'  always  has 
been,  Ma'am,  as  ye  kin  see  easy.    In  the  fam'ly  fight- 

260 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

in's  thar's  a  good  many  killin's,  but  we  hain't  had  what 
ye  might  call  a  real  murder,  not  in  sixty  year.  Ye  see 
that  house  acrosst  the  creek  thar? — well,  over  thar, 
sixty  year  ago,  a  fam'ly  named  Baker  murdered  a 
feller  named  Pruitt  fer  some  land  an'  money  he  had. 
That  Baker  woman  sartinly  was  servigerous.  Her  man 
hit  Pruitt  in  the  haid  with  a  hammer,  an*  they  left  him 
out  in  the  yard,  but  he  come  to.  The  old  womern  says, 
'Well,  I'll  kill  ye  so  ye'll  stay  killed.'  So  she  taken 
up  a  ax  an'  cut  off  his  haid.  That  was  a  long  while 
ago.  Things  like  that  don't  happen  often.  That  was 
murderin',  not  killin'. 

"Fact  is,  times  is  gittin'  qui'ter  even  at  'lection  and 
co'te  settin's  nowadays.  Thar  wasn't  nobody  shot  over 
in  Leslie  County  co'te  settin's  last  term,  excusin'  Mose 
Post.  The  depity  sher'f,  Wilson,  went  out  to  'rest 
Mose.  He  was  about  the  fightin'est  man  in  them  parts. 
Mose  was  a-leanin'  aginst  the  fence  when  the  depity 
come  up,  an'  his  gun  got  hung  in  the  palin'  when  he 
pulled  it,  so  the  depity  shot  him  a  couple  times.  Hit 
hain't  much  like  old  time  co'te  settin's  when  I 
young,  Ma'am. 

"No,  T  reckon  it's  the  new  railroad  that's  a-changtn' 
everything  nowadays.  We're  within  twenty  mile  of 
whar  it's  a-goin*  acrosst  the  haid  of  Hell-fer-Sartin. 
Folks  says  that  farms  is  a-goin'  up  right  along  nowa- 
.  an'  timber,  too.  Land  didn't  useter  have  no  value 
here  when  I  was  a  gal  as  old  as  ye  air  now.    Folks  jest 

261 


THE  WAY  OUT 

moved  out  an*  set  down  on  a  piece  of  land,  an*  cl'ared 
it  up  like — that's  the  way  me  an'  my  man  done.  I've 
seed  a  good  farm  sold  fer  a  fiddle  an*  a  hog  rifle — an* 
now  here's  that  farm  wuth  they  say  maybe  twenty-five 
thousand  dollars,  'cause  they  found  a  little  ile  on  it. 
How  much  is  twenty-five  thousand  dollars,  anyway, 
Ma'am? 

"Times  sartinly  is  changin* !  Now,  in  my  time  I've 
seed  the  hull  upper  part  of  Tejus  Creek — they  allowed 
over  two  hundred  thousand  acres — sold  fer  a  rifle  an' 
a  bell-crowned  hat.  What  ye  reckon  that  land's  wuth 
now,  Ma'am? 

"The  Joslins  had  land  over  in  thar,  too,  someone 
tolt  me.  Fer  matter  of  that,  Davy  like  enough  owns 
or  will  heir  from  his  granny  a  heap  of  land  over  on 
Hell-fer-Sartin,  besides  the  farm  he  give  to  Meliss' 
over  thar  on  Coal  Creek,  whar  he  used  to  live.  He 
nuwer  would  sell  his  land,  an'  he  nuvver  would  let  his 
granny  do  it  neither.  The  blacksmith  an'  the  post- 
master tolt  me  that  like  enough  when  the  railroad 
comes  Davy  sartinly  will  be  rich.  I've  knowed  coal 
rights  to  go  fer  five  cents  a  acre,  an*  old-time  poplar 
an'  oak  timber  fer  a  dollar  an'  a  hafe  a  acre.  Yit  folks 
tells  me  that  one  log  outen  them  trees  would  be  wuth 
ten  or  twelve  dollar  down  at  Windsor,  maybe.  Ye 
reckon  that's  so,  Ma'am? 

"Oh,  shucks,  I  expect  I'm  a-makin'  ye  tired, 
a-talkin'  this  way.     I'm  just  a-narratin*  along,  'cause 

262 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

ye  said  ye  wanted  to  lam  somethin'  about  our  mount- 
ings. I  w isn't  we  had  time  to  git  up  to  Big  Creek. 
Thar's  a  fam'ly  of  twelve  people  up  thar,  Ma'am,  an* 
y  one  of  'em  plays  some  kind  of  a  musercal  in- 
strumcnt.  When  all  twelve  of  them  people  begins 
to  play  ye'd  think  hell  was  a-poppin',  Ma'am.  Didn't 
ye  nuvver  hear  ary  one  of  our  old  fiddle  tunes  ?" 
Marcia  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afraid  not,"  she  said, 
'o?  Why,  Davy  useter  be  a  powerful  fiddle:  in 
his  time,  afore  he  got  religion  so  hard.  I  reckon  he 
could  play  most  all  the  old-time  tunes.  Didn't  ye 
nuvver  hear  'Barbara  Allen,'  or  'Lord  Lovell,'  Ma'am? 
I've  seen  men  set  an'  cry  over  'Lord  Lovell.'  Then 
thar  was  'Polly  Allen,'  another  ballet.  Thar  was  some 
folks  always  that  could  make  words  fer  ballets,  an' 
they'd  sort  of  sing  'em. 

"As  fer  fifkllin'  tunes,  thar's  so  many  I  kain't  hardly 
Meet.  Thar  was  'The  Flowers  of  Edingburg' — I 
don't  know  whar  that  come  from,  but  they  says  it's 
old,  an'  like  enough  come  over  the  mountings.  An' 
thar  was  The  Deer  Walk' — I  don't  know  whar  that 
come  from  neither.     Then  thar  was  'The  Hog-I 

,'  an'  'Jawbone,'  an'  'The  Puncheon  Floor,'  an' 
'Jones's  Still  House.'  an'  'Sugar  in  the  Bowl,'  an'  'Suds 
Over  the  Fence,'  an'  'Turkey  in  the  Straw' — didn't  ye 
never  hear  none  of  them  tunes,  Ma'am?" 

m  not  sure,  Granny,"  rejoined  Marcia  Haddon. 
"As  you  say,  I'm  powerful  ignorant,  and  I'm  afraid 

2C3 


THE  WAY  OUT 

my  education  isn't  very  wide  in  these  matters.    Go  on 
and  tell  me  some  more." 

"Well,  thar  was  'Round  the  Sugar  Tree'— that's  an- 
other tune  the  boys  played  at  dancin's — and  'Notchy 
on  the  Hill/  That  tune  come  from  the  raftsmen. 
They  tolt  us  thar  was  a  river  called  the  Missi 
somewhars,  an'  a  good  many  tunes  come  up  from 
down  the  Mississip'. 

"Then  thar  was  'Sally  Ann,'  an'  'Ida  Red/  an' 
'Shreveport' — like  enough  'Shreveport'  come  from  the 
raftin'  times,  too.  Then  thar  was  'Dan  Hogan's,'  an' 
'Old  Ned,'  an'  'Gall  of  the  Yare'  (Guadalquivir?). 
Tolk  an'  Dallas'  was  a  'lection  tune.  Then  thar's  'The 
Campbells  Air  Comin',' — why,  law  \  Ma'am,  I  could 
go  on  a-tellin'  names  of  fiddlin'  tunes  fer  a  hour  yit. 

"But  hain't  this  a  purty  country,  Ma'am,  we're 
a-goin'  through?  I  think  it's  right  purty,  an'  I  al- 
ways done  so,  from  the  time  I  was  a  gal,  old  as  ye 
air.  Davy  says  he  hain't  seen  no  purtier  country'n 
this,  an'  he's  been  Outside.  I  wonder  how  much  land 
he'll  heir  from  his  granny — mother  of  Preacher  Jos- 
lin?  She's  ninety-five  year  old,  if  she's  a  day. 
Wouldn't  it  be  strange  if  the  new  railroad  would  make 
some  of  us  pore  folks  rich  atter  all?  Ye  don't  know 
much  about  Davy?" 

Marcia  Haddon  had  turned  away  her  face  from  the 
scrutiny  of  the  old  woman's  keen  eyes,  but  the  latter 
went  on : 

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GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

"I  always  did  wonder  what  Davy  done  when  he 
went  Outside.  Do  ye  know?  He  sartinly  come  back 
powerful  changed.  He  useter  be  a  right  servigerous 
kind  of  a  man,  like  I  said,  the  fightin'est  of  all  the 
fightin'  Joslins.  But,  shucks!  he's  so  different  now  ye 
wouldn't  know  the  boy.  He's  as  mild  as  skim  melk. 
He  always  was  good  to  Meliss',  too.  Her  gittin'  a  di- 
vorce from  him  when  he  was  away — an'  all  he  was 
a-txyin'  to  do  was  to  git  a  education  so's  to  he'p  pore 
folks  like  me!  'Pears  to  me  like  Meliss*  Joslin  got 
entirely  too  much  attention  paid  to  herself  along  of 
that  divorce.  She  nuwer  was  so  much  noways.  She 
couldn't  neither  spin  nor  weave  wuth  shucks,  an'  be- 
sides, her  two  babies  both  died  on  her.  She  wasn't  so 
much. 

"Law,  I  could  tell  ye  a  heap  more  things  if  ye  liked 
narratin*.  Fer  instant,  here's  whar  the  men  in  my 
grandad's  time  chased  the  last  two  Injuns  outen  this 
country,  an'  kilt  'em  up  on  Redbird.  This  creek  was 
named  atter  one.  Thar's  a  hole  up  the  river  called 
Jack's  Hole,  whar  the  other  was  shot.  One  Injun  was 
named  Red  Bird,  an'  the  other  they  called  Jack.  They 
cotched  'em  up  above,  but  they  used  to  live  in  a  cave 
round  here,  not  far  from  whar  we  air  now. 

"Wasn't  Davy  a-tellin'  ye  about  the  cave  whar  the 
:  k-rin'  wimmcrn  lives?     Well,  that's  the  very 
place  whar  them  two   Injuns   useter  live  years  ago. 
Hain't  he  never  tolt  ye  about  'em?" 

265 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"I  don't  think  so,"  said  Marcia  Haddon,  content 
with  the  one-sided  conversation.  "What  about  them, 
Granny?" 

"Well,  I'll  show  ye  the  very  place  right  soon.  Hit's 
jest  beyant  the  two  rocks  that  leans  together,  whar 
Davy  says  some  time  he's  a-goin'  to  start  another 
school.  Hain't  he  nuvver  tolt  ye  about  that  neither? 
Seems  to  me  ye  an'  him  hain't  talked  much  noways. 
"Well,  now,  them  two  wimmern  is  jest  pore  wild 
folks,  ye  mought  say.  This  cave  is  the  onliest  home 
they've  had  fer  years.  The  young  woman  is  named 
Min,  an'  her  little  gal  is  named  Min,  too.  She  hain't 
got  no  pap,  but  she's  purty  as  a  pictur,  that  little  gal." 
"The  poor  child !"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "Granny, 
I  almost  wish  I  hadn't  heard  so  much." 

"Well,  Ma'am,  suppose  ye  was  throwed  down  in 
these  mountings,  with  nothin'  to  do  with — what  do  ye 
reckon  ye'd  do?  About  the  best  ye  could,  huh?  I 
reckon  that's  what  all  of  us  folks  has  had  to  do — yes, 
it's  jest  what  all  of  us  folks  has  had  to  do.  It's  what 
everybody  has  got  to  do,  come  to  that. 

"Say,  child,  was  ye  ever  merried  more'n  onct?" 
Granny  demanded  suddenly.  "I  reckon  ye  was  young 
when  ye  was  merried — ye  hain't  larned  much  yit." 

"Yes,  I  was  young,"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "And 
once — only  once." 

"Uh  huh !  Man  jest  come  along  an'  got  foolish  over 
yore  purty  face,  like  enough,  an'  talked  fine  to  ye,  an' 

266 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

so  ye  was  merried !  It  goes  that  way.  Well,  I  reckon 
in  a  year  or  two  ye'll  like  enough  merry  again.  Ye're 
gittin'  purtier  every  day.  Some  folks  merries  in  lessen 
a  year,  but  hit  hain't  ordinary  helt  decent  to  be  in  too 
big  a  hurry  " 

She  went  on,  ruminatingly.  "Me  an*  my  old  man 
has  lived  together  a  long  while — I  nuwer  was  merried 
more'n  only  onct,  neither.  He's  so  damn  tough  nothin' 
couldn't  kill  him,  'pears  like.  He  got  a  tree  fall  on 
him,  while  ago,  when  he  was  turned  fifty,  an'  he  hain't 
been  much  of  a  fightin'  man  sence  then,  but  still  he's 
lived  along  sever'l  year  sence  then,  too. 

"Well,  now,  what  I  was  a-goin'  to  say  was,  Ma'am, 
supposin'  if  he'd  of  died  when  I  was,  say,  young  as  ye 
air.  Do  ye  suppose  I'd  of  stayed  single  all  of  my  life? 
I  don't  say  if  I  would  or  I  wouldn't,  but  I've  knowed 
wimmern  to  merry  four  or  five  times,  like  enough — I 
mought  of  merried  sever'l  times,  come  need  fer't.  But 
thank  God  I  didn't  haveter. 

"Didn't  ye  never  have  no  sweethearts  afore  ye 
was  merried,  Ma'am  ?"  she  went  on  in  her  own  fashion, 
her  inquisitiveness  now  growing  under  the  reticence 
of  the  other. 

"Don't  all  girls?"  said  Marcia  Haddon  soberly. 

"Most  has,"  said  the  old  dame,  "mostly,  yes.  All, 
ye  mought  say,  that's  as  purty  as  ye  was.  An*  as  I 
was  sayin',  ye're  a-gittin'  purtier  right  along.  Ye'll 
be  a  right  peart-lookin'  widder  afore  long.    Well,  like 

267 


THE  WAY  OUT 

I  was  sayin\  ye  mought  of  merried  ary  one  of  'em  if 
ye  hadn't  of  merried  the  man  ye  did." 

"It  never  came  up  for  discussion  in  my  mind, 
Granny,"  said  Marcia  Haddon  with  dignity. 

uh !  Thar's  most  always  two  or  three  men  in  ary 
womern's  life,"  responded  Granny  Williams  calmly. 
"Thar  was  two  or  three  in  mine.  Like  enough  I'd  of 
merried  one  of  'em  if  I  hadn't  of  merried  Henry  like 
I  done.  I  been  too  busy  to  think  about  sich  matters 
sence.  But,  just  so  long  as  a  woman  is  foot-loose  like, 
chances  air  she  mought  merry  two  or  three  men,  or 
even  sever'l,  like  I  said." 

Marcia  Haddon  made  no  response  to  this  matter-of- 
fact  reasoning,  but  her  ancient  companion  continued 
in  her  monologue. 

"Yes,"  she  chuckled,  "that's  so.  An'  yit,  if  ever  a 
man  admits  to  his  wife  that  he  has  ever  saw  more'n 
one  womern  in  all  his  borned  life,  she'll  raise  hell  with 
him !    Now,  Davy " 

Marcia  Haddon  suddenly  pulled  up  her  mule  an' 
hastened  on,  but  relentlessly  the  old  woman  resumed 
when  she  had  come  alongside. 

"I  was  savin'  about  Davy — he  were  merried  onlucky. 
It  jest  happened  that  way.  An'  now  she's  got  her  a 
Jivorce  from  him.    That's  a  awful  thing." 

"We'll  talk  of  something  else,  Granny,"  said  Mar- 
cia Haddon.  The  old  dame  looked  at  her  keenly,  cu- 
riosity in  her  unseen  glance. 

268 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

"An*  why  not  talk  of  Davy?"  she  insisted  after  a 
time. 

"I  don't  wish  to  do  so,  Granny.  It's  nothing  to  me 
how  he  has  married  or  what  he  does." 

"I  reckon  that's  so,"  sighed  Granny  Williams. 
"He's  only  a  mounting  boy  at  that,  though  powerful 
smart.  Some  said  he  hadn't  orter  of  ever  left  the 
mountings,  because  he  war  the  leader  of  his  fam'ly — 
Chan  Bullock,  he's  too  young.  Well,  maybe  they're 
right,  an'  maybe  they  hain't.  They  say  the  old  quarls 
is  about  all  fixed  up  in  here  now — the  whole  country's 
changed  come  these  last  two  year,  now  the  railroad's 
comin'." 

"An*  Davy's  changed,  too,"  she  went  on.  "He's 
sadder'n  what  he  used  to  be.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
seed  a  man  any  sadder'n  he  is,  especial  right  now.  In 
the  old  times  he  used  to  be  the  fightin'est,  whisky- 
drinkin'est  young  man  in  this  here  hull  valley,  an'  now 
he's  got  to  be  the  workin'est  man  in  all  these  parts.  I 
reckon  it's  the  divorce  that  shames  him.  Not  that  I 
suppose  he's  a-seekin'  around  anywhars  for  any  more 
merryin' — he  like  enough  had  his  satisfy  of  gettin' 
merried." 

Marcia  Haddon  did  her  best  to  change  the  conver- 
sation. "You  were  telling  me  about  a  place  where 
they  used  to  teach  school  long  ago— right  out  of  doors, 
in  the  open,"  said  she. 

"That's  furtherer  on  up  the  creek,  beyant  the  old 
269 


THE  WAY  OUT 

ford  whar  the  buffcrlo  come  down  to  the  salt  lick  in 
my  granddad's  time.  That's  a  purty  place,  right  in 
the  bank  of  the  creek.     I'll  show  it  to  ye  Lome  day. 

"But  now,"  she  resumed,  as,  turning  the  bend  of  the 
road,  they  saw  before  them  the  blackened  roof  of  a 
deep  cavern  in  the  sidehill — "thar's  whar  them  wan- 
derm'  wimmern  lives  I  was  tellin'  ye  about,  Ma'am. 
Looks  like  thar  wasn't  no  one  to  home." 

But  presently  what  appeared  to  be  a  little  bundle  of 
rags  far  off  at  a  back  corner  stirred,  moved,  and  devel- 
oped itself  into  a  very  ragged  little  girl  with  very 
tangled  hair.  She  was  perhaps  seven  or  eight  years 
of  age — a  child  with  wide,  dark  eyes  and  white,  even 
teeth,  as  now  they  might  see,  for  she  smiled  shyly  as 
they  paused  at  the  opening  of  the  cave. 

"Come  here,  Mill,"  said  old  Granny  Williams. 
"Come  on  out  here  an'  talk  to  the  lady,  won't  ye  ?" 

The  child  came  out,  very  slowly,  shy  as  some  wild 
creature.  She  was  clad  now  in  a  single-piece  nonde- 
script garment,  was  barefooted,  and  her  hair  appar- 
ently had  never  known  comb  or  covering. 

"Whar's  yore  mammy  at,  Min?"  demanded  the  old 
lady. 

The  child  made  no  answer ;  only  stood  twisting  a  toe 
into  the  gravel  of  the  roadway,  painfully  embarrassed 
by  the  presence  of  this  strange  creature  whose  like  she 
never  had  seen  in  all  her  life. 

"It's  only  a  furrin  lady  with  fotched-on  clothes," 
270 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

said   old    Granny   Williams.      "She   won't   hurt    ye. 
Kain't  ye  come  an'  shake  hands?" 

"Yes,  little  girl,  come,"  said  Marcia  Haddon  sud- 
denly, holding  out  her  hand,  and  leaning  forward  with 
so  bright  a  smile  that  slowly  the  child  came  to  her, 
shyly  extending  her  hand. 

Marcia  Haddon  took  the  child's  hand  in  her  own. 
As  she  did  so  a  strange  emotion  suddenly  came  upon 
her — a  primal  glow  at  this  touch  of  a  child's  warm 
■I  in  her  own.  Sudden  tears  came  into  her  own 
eyes — tears  not  unhappy,  either ;  for  now,  in  some  way 
unexplainable  to  herself,  a  whole,  new,  wide  world 
seemed  to  open  all  around  her.  In  her  own  world  of 
ease,  apart,  she  never  yet  had  known  or  dreamed  the 
great,  throbbing,  vital  things  of  life  itself.  But  these 
simple  folk,  poor,  forgotten — they  knew  them  all. 
They  were  so  far  richer  than  herself.  Their  world 
had  been  so  much  wider  than  her  own. 

The  child  stood  looking  shyly  at  her,  like  any  wild 
creature,  her  dark  eyes  wide  and  wistful,  across  them 
passing  alternate  waves  of  light  and  shadow,  as  left 
by  a  passing  cloud  upon  the  sky.  But,  moved  though 
she  was  to  speak  to  the  strange  lady,  she  did  not  do 
so.  Only  she  stood  looking  up  wistfully,  and  the 
woman  who  sat  above  her  looked  down  wistfully  in 
turn. 

ave  ye  had  yore  breakfast,  Min?"  asked  Granny 
Williams  brusquely.     The  child  shook  her  head,  her 

271 


J 
THE  WAY  OUT 

finger  in  her  mouth  now,  her  toe  still  twisting  at  the 
earth. 

"Well,  well,  hain't  that  a  shame!  I  reckon  yore 
mammy's  at  the  corn-hoein'  up  to  the  big  house  in  the 
bottoms,  hain't  she?" 

The  child  nodded  her  head. 

"Well,  well,  ye  shall  have  somethin'  to  eat."  The 
old  lady  opened  the  top  of  the  small  basket  which  hung 
on  her  arm,  a  basket  which  it  was  always  her  custom 
to  take  to  church  with  her  for  the  Fake  of  certain  chil- 
dren and  grandchildren  of  her  own.  She  drew  out  a 
round  cookie  with  a  hole  in  the  center,  which  she  ex- 
tended to  the  child  of  the  wandering  women — the  first 
sweetmeat  the  little  one  had  ever  known  in  all  her 
life. 

"I'll  tell  yore  mammy  to  bring  ye  down  somethin' 
to  eat,"  added  Granny  Williams.  And  so  she  clucked 
to  her  mule. 

The  solitary  occupant  of  the  cave  stood  now  in  the 
road,  looking  after  them  wonderingly,  even  the  beloved 
cookie  arrested  halfway  between  hand  and  mouth. 

"Granny,  what  will  become  of  a  child  like  that  left 
here  in  these  hills?"  demanded  Marcia  Haddon  after 
a  while.  There  was  a  half  sob  in  her  voice,  though 
still  that  strange,  new,  warm  feeling  in  her  heart. 

"Why,  she'll  go  to  hell,  that's  what'll  become  of 
her,"  said  Granny  promptly.  "Excusin'  of  that  school 
of  Davy's  up  thar  on  the  hill,  an'  what  it  kin  do  fer 

272 


GRANNY'S  NARRATIONS 

these  chiklern,  why,  they're  all  goin'  plumb  to  hell, 
accordin'  to  ary  sort  of  preachin'  I  ever  did  hear." 

"Yes,"  she  went  on  reflectively,  "thar's  a  heap  of 
the  onredeemed  in  these  mountings,  I  reckon.  Maybe 
the  railroad'll  make  all  the  valleys  alike — I  hope  so. 
It  may  not  come  in  my  time.  Davy  says  it's  a-comin' 
right  soon.    I  don't  know  about  them  things." 

Marcia  Haddon  made  no  answer.  She  looked  across 
the  tree-clad  slopes' of  these  rounded  hills,  trying  to 
visualize  the  point  of  view  of  that  man,  her  husband, 
who  once  had  felt  his  own  right  to  so  much  of  this 
country  and  its  contents.  Ownership  of  these  hills,  this 
great  world  that  lay  about  her  undiscovered!  Did, 
then,  the  rights  of  sovereignty  impose  no  duties  in  re- 
turn? 

"Granny,"  said  she  suddenly,  after  they  had  traveled 
for  a  time  in  silence. 

"What  is  it,  child?"  asked  the  old  dame  gently. 

"Do  you  suppose  the  mother  of  that  child  would  let 
her  go  away  to  school?" 

"Do  I  suppose  so?"  ejaculated  Granny  Williams 
fiercely.  "Don't  I  know  she  would  ?  We  been  waitin', 
here  in  the  Cumberlands.  Jest  waitin'.  Lord  ha' 
massy  on  us. 

"Look  what  Davy  done,"  she  went  on.  "He  war 
only  out  a  couple  of  year,  an'  yit  he  changed  complete, 
ye  mought  say.  I  kain't  hardly  understand  him  talk  no 
more,  he  talks  so  furrin,  same's  ye.    If  Davy  has  went 

273 


THE  WAY  OUT 

furrin,  'pears  like  we  all  mought  as  well  chirk  up  some 
an*  git  more  furrin,  too.  The  new  railroad'll  sartinly 
change  a  heap  of  things. 

"Well,  here  we  air  at  the  gate  of  my  cousin,  right  on 
beyant.  We'll  light  clown  an'  stop  here  overnight," 
concluded  Granny  Williams  at  last,  knocking  the  ashes 
out  of  her  pipe  and  thrusting  it  into  her  pocket.  "Was 
ye  ever  to  school  much  in  yore  life,  Ma'am?"  she 
demanded  as  she  stood,  her  lean  arm  across  her  mule's 
neck. 

"Yes,  Granny,"  replied  the  "furrin  woman"  gently. 
"But  I've  learned  more  to-day,  I  think,  than  in  all  my 
life  before." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  DRUMS 

WHEN,  on  the  afternoon  of  a  later  day,  Mar- 
cia  Haddon  and  her  ancient  chaperone  re- 
entered the  long  and  straggling  street  at  the 
forks  of  the  river,  they  noted  certain  signs  of  excite- 
ment. A  group  of  men  was  standing ;  others  were  hur- 
rying to  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  big  store. 

A  striking  sound  came  to  their  ears — a  sound  not 
known  in  the  Cumberlands  for  a  generation — the  throb- 
bing of  a  drum,  the  shrilling  of  a  fife. 

Upon  a  staff,  upheld  by  the  hand  of  one  of  a 
little  group  of  four  men  in  uniform,  was  something 
h  focussed  the  eyes  of  all.     It  was  the  Flag — the 
Flas  for  which  the  Cumberlands  once  had  fought 

"Why,  look-a-thar !"  exclaimed  Granny  Williams, 
hurrying  up  her  mule.  "I  know  them  boys,  all  four  of 
'em!  It's  Jimmy  an*  Willy  Sanders,  Tom  Carswell, 
an'  Grief  Talley — all  four  of  'em  went  out  an'  'listed 
more'n  eight  year  ago,  an'  been  in  the  Army  ever  sense. 
I'd  like  to  know  what  fer  they  come  in  here  now." 

Marcia  Haddon  could  see  posted  up  in  the  window  a 
flaming   poster    whose    letters   of    red    spoke    loudly 

275 


THE  WAY  OUT 

mough  to  all  who  could  understand  them:  "Your 
country  needs  you!" 

Their  country!  Their  country!  It  had  forgotten 
them  all  these  years — these  men  who  once  had  saved 
the  principle  of  freedom  for  a  world — a  world  now 
gone  mad  once  more  with  blood  and  crying  aloud  now 
again  for  aid  in  the  salvation  of  that  same  principle. 

"What  is  it,  Ma'am?"  demanded  Granny  Williams, 
jts  they  hurried  on  down  the  street  "What's  the  paper 
jay?" 

"It's  the  war !  They  must  be  a  recruiting  party  from 
the  Army,"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "The  paper  in  the 
window  says,  'Your  country  needs  you!' " 

"It  'pears  to  me  I  heerd  some  talk  about  thar  bein' 
fightin'  goin'  on  Outside  somewhar's,"  said  Granny 
Williams.  "But  what's  that  got  to  do  with  us  down 
here?  Ye  don't  reckon  the  Governwzrnf  needs  us,  do 
ye?" 

That  was  the  message  of  this  flaring  placard  hung 
up  for  these,  so  few  of  whom  could  read ;  that  was  the 
import  of  archaic  drum  and  fife,  and  modern  flag  and 
uniform — here  in  the  far-off  and  forgotten  Cumber- 
lands.     "Your  country  needs  you!" 

Men  came  from  all  parts  of  the  little  settlement,  at- 
tracted by  the  sound  of  the  music.  They  gazed  dumbly 
and  vaguely  at  the  sheet  in  the  window,  whose  mean- 
ing they  knew  from  what  these  soldier  boys  told  them 
— a  recruiting  sergeant,  a  corporal,  and  two  privates, 

276 


THE  DRUMS 

sent  in  from  the  district  recruiting  station  on  the  rail- 
road, far  away. 

"  Whar's  Davy  ?"  asked  old  Absalom  Gannt.  "Some- 
one go  git  Davy.    We  got  to  look  into  this  thing." 

Before  David  Joslin  could  be  found,  the  two  women 
had  turned  in  at  Granny  Williams'  home.  Huddling 
like  fowls,  all  the  women  had  taken  to  cover  at  the 
alarm.    The  street  was  empty  save  for  men  and  boys. 

"What's  all  this  about,  Davy?"  asked  old  Absalom, 
when  presently  Joslin  joined  them  in  the  street.  "Is 
our  Government  in  this  here?" 

"Yes,"  said  David  Joslin.  "It's  war !  Our  country's 
in  it    That's  what  it  says." 

Someone  handed  him  a  newspaper,  and  he  read  its 
headlines  hurriedly,  interpreting  for  them  as  he  did  so. 
These  men  well  enough  knew  what  war  was,  or  had 
been — the  traditions  of  their  fathers  told  them.  The 
faces  about  him  were  serious  now;  no  light  remark 
was  ventured  by  any.  Their  eyes  shifted  from  the 
gaunt,  lean  face  of  David  Joslin,  as  he  read,  to  this  lit- 
tle fluttering  emblem  which  stood  driven  in  the  moun- 
tain airs. 

"They've  fired  on  our  Flag!"  said  David  Joslin  to 
them  at  last.  "Our  women  and  our  children  have  been 
killed  by  these — the  enemy." 

A  low  murmur,  amounting  to  a  growl  in  sum,  rose 
from  the  group  of  men.  Silently  they  gathered  more 
closely  about  him. 

277 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"Shot  at  Dur  flag?"  said  old  Absalom  Gannt— "an* 
wimmern  and  children — that  kain't  be!  That  hain't 
right." 

"But  it's  true,"  said  David  Joslin.  "We'll  have  to 
fight" 

"Ye* re  damn  right  we'll  have  to  fight!"  said  Absa- 
lom.    "Our  Government  kain't  stand  that/' 

"The  sergeant  here  will  tell  you/'  went  on  David 
Joslin,  after  a  time.  'The  Government  wants  volun- 
teers, up  to  forty — that'll  let  me  in.  It  may  be  some 
of  you  boys  will  want  to  go  along.  Maybe  it's  our 
time  come  at  last !" 

And  now,  all  at  once,  swiftly,  exultantly,  gloriously 
unrestrained,  the  full  gift  of  tongues  fell  upon  David 
Joslin,  as  he  stood  there  in  the  open  street  of  a  moun- 
tain village  in  a  forgotten  land !  Suddenly  the  clouds 
cleared  in  front  of  him.  He  saw,  and  was  content 
now  with  what  he  saw.  Now  he  knew  his  life  had  not 
been  in  vain;  that  yet  it  might  be  of  worth;  that  on 
ahead,  if  he  should  be  spared  to  win  it,  lay  the  great, 
wide  education  of  life  and  citizenship,  and  a  share  in 
the  building  and  the  keeping  of  a  world!  He  spoke 
in  such  fashion  that  all  his  own  longings,  his  own 
yearnings  for  his  country  and  his  people  became  ap- 
parent to  them  now,  so  that  they  listened  in  trust  and 
awe  and  reverence;  as  well  as  in  somber  anger  when 
he  swung  to  the  great  summons.  Had  there  been 
David  Joslins  throughout  the  land,  the  American  Army 

278 


THE  DRUMS 

had  been  a  matter  of  a  week,  a  day,  and  we  had  not 
been  laggard  in  Freedom's  great  day  of  peril. 

"There's  goin'  to  be  a  draft,  a  conscription,"  said 
the  sergeant  in  explanation  after  a  time. 

"Draft  be  damned !"  said  Absalom  Gannt,  and  spoke 
the  mind  of  all.  "Thar  kain't  nobody  draft  us,  not 
even  the  Government.    We'll  go  ahead  of  ary  draft." 

"They  won't  let  you  go,  Absalom.  You're  too  old," 
said  Sergeant  Talley  to  him,  smiling. 

"Too  old !  Who — me?  I'd  like  to  see  ary  man  tells 
me  I'm  too  old  to  fight,"  rejoined  that  stark  citizen. 

"Twenty-one  to  thirty-one,"  smiled  Sergeant  Talley. 
"Up  to  forty,  if  you  volunteer." 

"Well,  that  lets  me  in,  anyway,"  said  Chan  Bul- 
lock, and  there  were  nods  through  the  little  crowd. 
Only  the  older  men  turned  face  to  face,  shaking  their 
heads. 

"It  hain't  no  ways  reas'ner'ble  to  let  the  boys  go 
alone,"  said  old  Absalom  Gannt.  "It  hain't  no  ways 
right,  an'  it  wouldn't  do — we'll  all  go  out  together, 
that's  what  we'll  do!  Davy  Joslin,  ye'll  have  to  go, 
too— I  reckon  ye'll  have  to  lead  us — Outside." 

"Well,  we  could  make  up  a  band  of  men,"  said  Ser- 
geant Talley,  hesitating,  "and  go  over  to  the  examin- 
ing officers  at  the  station.    A  day's  march,  maybe." 

"That's  the  talk !"  said  Absalom.  "We'll  all  go  out 
together.  Davy,  tell  me,"  and  he  turned  to  him  sud- 
denly, "who  is  it  we're  a-fightin'  with?" 

279 


THE  WAY  OUT 

And  David  told  him  as  well  as  he  might,  suiting 
what  he  said  to  the  understanding  of  these  who  heard. 

"Give  us  a  day,  Sergeant,  to  fix  things  up  at  home," 
suggested  Joslin  now.    "We'll  not  keep  you  long." 

"Look  at  them  old  guys,"  grumUed  the  smart  ser- 
geant to  his  corporal,  aside.  "We  don't  want  them 
along,  but  it  don't  look  like  we  could  head  them  off." 

The  color-bearer  picked  up  his  flag  once  more.  The 
drummer  pulled  around  his  slings,  and  the  fifer 
handled  his  instrument.  The  throb  of  the  drum,  the 
high  note  of  the  fife,  passed  down  the  street  to  yet  an- 
other stand.  And  behind  them,  ragged,  gaunt,  un- 
kempt, somewhat  uncouth,  fell  in  the  band  of  the  lost 
children,  the  men  of  the  Cumberlands,  now  following 
the  Flag,  which  had  so  long  forgotten  them. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

STRANGERS     WITHIN     THE    GATES 

THE  civic  center  of  the  village  at  the  river  forks 
might  have  been  called  the  long  building,  in 
which  were  located  the  post-office  and  the 
blacksmith  shop.  It  was  here  that,  on  the  morning 
following,  old  Granny  Joslin  stood  in  the  door,  pipe 
in  mouth,  looking  up  the  long  street,  which  rambled 
down  from  the  hills.  Her  gaze  was  fixed  upon  the 
approaching  vehicle  commonly  known  as  the  mail  stage. 
It  seemed  to  carry  passengers  this  morning,  an  un- 
usual thing,  and  the  passengers  themselves  were  such 
as  to  attract  special  attention  of  Granny  Joslin  and 
others. 

That  they  were  "furriners"  Granny  Joslin  would 
have  pronounced  long  ago.  There  were  two  women, 
both  young,  and  their  apparel,  had  it  been  worn  by  any 
of  these  parts,  would  distinctly  have  been  recognized 
as  "fotched  on." 

The  two  young  women  climbed  down,  unassisted, 
from  the  vehicle,  and  stood,  perhaps  as  extraordinary 
a  pair  as  ever  had  been  seen  thereabouts,  in  the  dust 
of   the   street,   looking  about   them   curiously.     The 


TIIK   WAY  OUT 

younger  of  the  two,  with  hands  in  pockets  and  feet 
just  a  trifle  wide  apart — a  trim  young  woman  and 
noticeable  anywhere — was  clad  in  well-cut  traveling 
garb  and  tailored  hat.  She  caught  now  in  her  gaze  the 
old  woman,  who  leaned  against  the  side  of  the  post- 
office  door,  silent  and  motionless,  regarding  these  new- 
comers. 

"Good-morning,  Grandma,"  said  she,  not  pertly,  but 
with  a  certain  easy  assurance,  which  seemed  to  go  nat- 
urally with  her. 

"Howdy,  Ma'am."  replied  Granny  Joslin,  still  with 
her  pipe  in  her  mouth. 

"Is  this  the  town,"  continued  the  young  woman,  "and 
if  it  isn't,  where  is  it?" 

"I  reckon's  as  much  as  ary  other  place,"  admitted 
Granny. 

"And  where's  the  hotel? — the  driver  said  there 
wasn't  any."  The  latter,  shaking  his  head,  mystified, 
had  stepped  within,  carrying  his  meager  mailsacks. 

"Hotel ?  Tavern,  you  mean?  Well,  now,  he's  done 
tolt  ye  the  truth,  Ma'am.  There  hain't  no  tavern  here, 
none  at  all." 

"What !  And  we've  ridden  twenty  miles  from  the 
railroad  because  we  couldn't  find  anything  fit  to  eat 
there." 

"It's  tougher  the  furtherer  in  ye  git,"  said  Granny 
Joslin.  "Ye  orter  see  Hell-fer-Sartin,  Ma'am.  Ye're 
from  the  North,  I  reckon?" 

282 


WITHIN    THE   GATES 

The  young  woman  nodded. 

"Well,  I  reckon  Granny  Williams  will  take  ye  in, 
like  enough.  She's  got  another  furrin  womern  in  thar 
now." 

"Oh,  all  right — that  will  be  fine.  Do  you  know  what 
her  rates  are?" 

"Rates,  Ma'am?" 

"How  much  she  charges  by  the  day,  or  maybe 
longer." 

The  old  lady  looked  at  her  silently  for  some  time, 
but  at  length  answered  with  a  certain  calm  dignity  of 
her  own. 

"I  don't  reckon  nobody  would  charge  ye  nothin'  fer 
what  ye  et  while  ye  was  in  here,  Ma'am,"  said  she. 
"Ye'd  be  welcome." 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  Nina?"  chuckled  the 
spokesman  of  the  two  new  arrivals. 

She  turned  again  to  the  old  woman.  "Well,"  said 
she  politely,  "we  want  to  do  what's  right.  I  just 
thought  I'd  ask  you,  you  know.  We're  strangers  here, 
all  right  enough.  We  wouldn't  plan  to  stay  long — 
maybe  not  more  than  a  day  or  two." 

"Who  air  ye?"  demanded  Granny  Joslin  succinctly. 
"Have  ye  heerd  anything  about  the  war  outside?  I 
heerd  tell  thar  was  some  sort  of  diffikilty  we-all  was 
havin'  with  some  other  folks  somewhars.  I  come  down 
to  sec." 

"War!  Have  we  heard  of  the  war!  I  should  say 
888 


THE   WAV   OUT 

we  hadn't  heard  of  anything  else!'1  rejoined  the  young 
woman.  "It's  put  a  crimp  in  business,  all  right— espe- 
cially our  business." 

hat  is  yore  business,  Ma'am?"  queried  the  old 
dame. 

"We're  players — actors— don't  you  see? — theatrical 
people — you  know.  And  we've  lost  a  perfectly  good 
angel.    That's  why  we're  he 

tcment  likewise  seemed  to  Granny  Joslin  a 
most  extraordinary  one.  She  made  no  comment,  as  the 
speaker  went  on,  feeling  a  trifle  angered  in  the  sus- 
picion that  these  others  were  making  sport  of  her. 

"Well,  it  was  the  war  that  did  that,"  said  the  young 
woman.    "And  here  we  are." 

"Tell  me,  Madam,"  began  the  older  of  the  two  new- 
comers, seeing  the  perplexity  of  the  old  lady,  "do  you 
know  of  any  one  in  here  lately  by  the  name  of  Had- 
don 

Granny  Joslin  bent  the  calm  gaze  of  her  deep-set 
hazel  eyes  upon  her. 

"The  furrin  womern  over  to  Granny  Williams' 
house  is  name  Haddon,"  said  she  after  a  time,  "but 
her  man,  he  hain't  here  no  more  now." 

"Isn't  here!  Has  he  been  here?  When  did  he 
leave  ?"    It  was  the  younger  woman  who  spoke  again. 

"He  lef '  a  while  back." 

"Where  did  he  go  ?    Do  you  know  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.    The  Lord  only  knows  whar  he  went, 
284 


WITHIN   THE   GATES 

but  he's  daid  all  right.  Up  yander  on  the  hill  is  whar 
he's  buried  at.  His  womern  has  been  stayin'  on  here 
fer  a  little  while  yit,  over  to  Granny  Williams',  like  I 
done  toll 

Her  close  scrutiny  saw  consternation  upon  the  faces 
of  both  the  newcomers. 

"But — you  don't  mean  Mr.  Haddon — you  don't 
mean  that  Mr.  James  Haddon — he  isn't  dead,  is  he?" 

"He  sartinly  is,"  replied  Granny  Joslin.  "He  was 
drownded  down  to  the  Narrers  while  he  was  a-comin' 
in  here.  They  had  a  boat  an'  they  come  up  from 
Windsor.  Davy — that's  my  grandson — saved  the 
corp,  and  he  had  a  moughty  hard  time  doin*  it,  too,  let 
me  tell  ye.  He  liken  to  have  drownded  hisself.  But 
,  he  fotched  the  corp,  anyways." 

The  two  strangers  looked  at  one  another,  horrified. 

"We  heard  he  came  in  that  way,"  began  the  younger 
woman.  "You  see,  we  knew  him  very  well.  We  wired 
to  New  York — don't  you  see,  he  was  our  partner,  the 
backer  of  our  company,  as  they  say — we  had  a  theatri- 
cal company  on  the  road.  Well,  they  told  us  he  had 
started  in  for  this  place  here.  Then  we  didn't  g^t  any 
more  word  from  his  oftu  weren't  so  far  away 

from  here  by  rail,  so  we  started  over — of  COOTI 
we'd  come  in  the  same  way  he  did  we  would  have 
heard  of  it — but  we  didn't.    You  see,  Mr.  Haddon 
in  business  with  us.    Dead? — why — why — what'll  we 

dor 


THE   WAY  OUT 

The  old  lady  still  regarded  them  both  fixedly,  her 
pipe  still  between  her  lips. 

"What's  yore  name,  Ma'am?"  said  she  after  a  time. 
"Ye're  migh:  .  'pears  like  to  me." 

"They  call  me  Polly  Pendleton,  Grandma."  said  the 
young  woman.  "I  don't  know  your  name — we  don't 
know  anything  at  all.  What  you  say  to  us  is  terrible — 
it's  awful." 

"Yes,  it's  right  hard,"  admitted  Granny  Joslin. 
"Say,  Ma'am,  tell  me,  did  ye  ever  meet  a  young  man 
from  these  parts?  An'  tell  me,  furthermore,  air  ye 
French  and  Irish  mixed  ?" 

Polly  Pendleton  suddenly  flushed  to  her  eyes. 
"What  makes  you  ask  that  ?"  she  demanded. 

"I  reckoned  ye  was,"  replied  the  old  dame  quietly. 
"Ye  jest  about  come  under  a  tall  man's  arm,  too,  don't 
ye?  Ye're  purty  as  a  pictur.  I  don't  know  as  I  ever 
seed  a  purtier  gal  than  ye,  lessen  it's  the  furrin  woman 
over  thar  at  Granny  Williams'  house  right  now.  I'm 
French  and  Irish  myself,  too,  Ma'am." 

"How  odd!  I  say,  Grandma,  what's  your  name — 
since  we're  getting  acquainted  now?" 

"My  name's  Joslin,  Ma'am.  That  thar  young  man 
I  meant  was  Davy,  my  grandson,  the  same  thet  built 
the*school  buildin'  up  yander  on  the  hill — biggest  build- 
ing ever  was  in  these  mountings.  Now,  I've  heerd 
Davy  talk  of  ye  afore  now,  Ma'am.  But  I  reckon  ye've 
come  in  here  fer  another  sort  of  man  than  Davy." 

286 


WITHIN   THE   GATES 

"Rather !"  said  Polly,  a  smile  suddenly  coming  upon 
her  troubled  face  in  spite  of  all.  "But  Joslin — David 
Joslin — why,  of  course — I've  seen  him,  yes.  You're 
right — we  didn't  come  in  here  after  him." 

The  look  of  genuine  perturbation  upon  the  faces  of 
the  two  young  women  proved  to  the  ancient  dame  that 
the  news  they  had  heard  was  serious  enough  for  them, 
whatever  cause  there  might  be.  Polly  Pendleton's 
dark  eyes  were  a  trifle  dimmed  as  she  turned  once 
more. 

"We're  sorry — we're  as  sorry  as  we  can  be,  Grand- 
ma," said  she.  "We  hadn't  any  idea  he  was  even 
sick.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  But  I  think  we'll 
have  to  go  back  as  soon  as  we  can." 

"Ye  kain't  git  back  afore  to-morrer,"  said  Granny. 
"But  the  fustest  thing  to  do  is  to  come  in  an'  git  some- 
thing to  eat.  We'll  go  over  to  Granny  Williams'.  Ye 
must  be  tired,  the  both  of  ye.     The  roads  is  awful." 

The  shrug  of  Polly's  shoulder  was  endorsement 
enough  for  this  general  statement,  and  Nina,  usually 
the  more  silent,  employed  likewise  now  an  eloquent  ex- 
clamation. 

"I  don't  believe  the  furrin  womern  has  come  1 
from  up  in  the  hills  \  1  Granny  Joslin. 

She  did  not  note  the  sudden  relief  which  came  upon 
the  face  of  at  least  one  of  her  auditors.  'But  that 
don't  make  no  difference,"  she  resumed.  "Thar  11  be 
plenty  of  room  fer  ye.     If  ye  was  up  in  my  country 


THE  WAY  OUT 

now,  I'd  have  ye  come  home  with  me,  bat  it's  ten  mile 
up  the  creek.  I  jest  walked  dc  Mb  mornin'  along 
of  my  i  akin'  sick  a  few  days  back." 

"You  walked— ten  miles!" 

"I  sartinlv  did.  But  like  I  said,  ye  kain't  walk  that 
fer,  bein'  furriners.  Why,  chile,  frail-like*  as  ye  air, 
ye'd  l>e  plumb  beat  out  by  that  time,  an'  so  would 
yore  sister  here — ye  said  yore  sister,  didn't  ye 

"She's  more  than  that,"  said  Polly  Pendleton. 
"She's  the  only  friend  I've  got  now.  We're  both 
awfully  obliged  to  you,  Mrs.  Joslin.  We  certainly 
are.    We'd  do  as  much  for  yor 

"I  believe  ye  would,  myself,"  said  Granny  Joslin 
simply.  "Ye'll  be  welcome  here,  so  fer  as  what  we 
got  to  give  ye.    We're  all  alike." 

Polly  Pendleton  was  pausing  for  a  moment's 
thought.  "We  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  in  the  world, 
of  course,  or  we'd  never  have  come  here.  We — I  don't 
ik  we  want  to  bother  Mrs.  Haddon,  you  know. 
She'd  rather  be  alone,  I'm  sure."  She  held  back,  hesi- 
tating. 

"She's  a  fine  womern,  Ma'am,  accordin'  to  Davy," 
rejoined  the  old  woman.  "He  says  she's  the  finest  he 
ever  seed,  and  he's  been  Outside  and  seed  a  power  of 
things  in  his  time,  Davy  has." 

"Well,"  broke  in  Polly  Pendleton,  now  with  a  cer- 
tain asperity,  "one  thing,  she  can't  be  any  hungrier 
than  I  am  right  now." 

288 


WITHIN   THE   GATES 

"So  long  as  ye  kin  eat  ye're  a-goin*  to  survive  your 
sorrer,  Ma'am,  I  always  heerd,"  rejoined  Granny  Jos- 
lin  grimly.  "Well,  come  along.  We  all  got  to  die 
some  time,  come  to  that." 

She  placed  her  pipe  in  her  pocket  now,  after  knock- 
ing out  the  ashes,  and  started  out  forthwith  in  the 
lead,  her  bent  and  bony  body,  shrunken  and  battered 
under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmity,  scarce  as  tall 
as  Polly  Pendleton  by  half  a  head.  Her  course  was 
across  the  street  along  which,  further  down,  lay  the 
house  of  Granny  Williams. 

"Well,   Nina,   old   dear,"   commented   Polly,  sotto 
.  as  they  followed,  "things  couldn't  be  much  worse, 
could  they?     Poor  chap — isn't  it  a  horrible  thing? 
And  we  never  knew  a  word !" 

Her  uncommunicative  comrade  only  nodded,  her 
face    drawn    into    lines    none    too    happy    now,    for 
she  it  was,  of  the  firm  of   Pendleton  and  Stanton, 
usually  was  the  more  concerned  with  the  bus- 
iness affa 

"And  here's  his  wife  in  here,  too — that  makes  it  a 
lot  harder,"  she  said  at  length.  "I've  a  picture  of 
how  much  she  loves  you,  Polly!  There's  plenty  of 
places  I'd  rather  be  in  than  right  here  now,  my 
dear!" 

"Well,  I'm  hungry,"  resumed  Polly  once  more,  try- 
ing to  shake  off  care,  as  always.  "Is  this  the  place. 
Grandma?"  she  added,  hurrying  up  now  and  gi 

289 


THE  WAY  OUT 

a  hand  to  the  old  dame's  elbow,  as  she  turned  in  at 
the  steep  walk  behind  the  gate. 

"It's  the  place,  Ma'am,"  said  Granny  Joslin.  "Come 
on  in.  Whether  Granny  Williams  is  home  or  not  ye'Il 
be  welcome  in  her  house.    It  hain't  never  locked." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   UNCERTIFIED 

GRANNY  JOSLIN  was  accurate  in  one  state- 
ment regarding  her  neighbor's  household,  but 
was  not  so  accurate  in  other  details.  Had 
Polly  Pendleton  known  surely  that  Marcia  Haddon 
was  in  the  house  she  now  approached,  she  certainly 
must  have  turned  and  gone  the  other  way.  And  had 
Marcia  herself  suspected  the  presence  in  town  of  these 
visitors  of  all  in  the  world,  it  is  most  likely  that 
she  would  have  prolonged  her  visit  in  the  hills  indefi- 
nitely, and  not  have  returned  earlier  in  the  day,  as  had 
been  the  case. 

In  her  room,  Marcia  Haddon  heard  voices — voices 
of  the  two  old  women,  voices  of  two  younger  women 
— one  voice  which  caused  her  to  stop  and  listen — all 
her  faculties  arrested. 

It  was  Granny  Williams  who  after  a  time  knocked 
at  her  door  and  called  her  out  to  meet  the  newcomers. 
Marcia,  with  sudden  prescience  of  what  was  to  come, 
summoned  all  her  fortitude  for  what  seemed  to  her 
the  unkindest  blow  she  ever  had  known  of  fate.  This 
woman — here — following  her  to  the  edge  of  the  world 


THE   WAY  OUT 

— to  her  husband's  very  grave-side — it  was  a  thing 
unspeakable  in  its  unfitness!  Her  very  soul  rebelled 
against  it. 

Her  color  was  high  as  she  stepped  out  into  the 
room,  facing  what  she  felt  must  be  an  encounter. 
"You  asked  for  me?"  said  she,  looking  directly  into 
the  face  of  Polly  Pendleton.  "I  think  there  must  be 
some  mistake."  Her  eyes  now  passed  calmly  from 
one  to  the  other,  her  face  cold. 

Polly,  quick  of  wit,  did  what  she  could.  "Mrs. 
Haddon,"  said  she  impulsively.  '.idn't  know  you 
were  here  when  we  came  in.  We  didn't  know  you 
were  in  town.  It's  all  a  mistake — everything's  a  mis- 
take. We  wanted  to  go  away  right  now — but  they 
wouldn't  let  us — there's  no  other  place  for  us.  Won't 
you  let  me  talk  to  you  now?    May  we " 

Her  gesture  indicated  the  room  from  which  Marcia 
had  but  now  emerged,  which  seemed  to  offer  privacy 
for  what  Polly  Pendleton  as  well  as  herself  knew  was 
to  be  a  scene. 

"As  you  like,"  said  Marcia  Haddon  icily,  and  held 
open  the  door,  closing  it  as  the  other  entered. 

all   a  mistake,    Mrs.    Haddon,"   began   Polly 
once  more  as  she  found  herself  alone  with  the  other. 

"So  it  would  seem,"  replied  Marcia,  still  coldly. 
"Not  one  of  my  own  making." 

"We  didn't  know  a  thing  about  it,  Mrs.  Haddon. 
I'm  sorry,  awfully  sorry — sorry  as  I  can  be." 

292 


THE  UNCERTIFIED 

"You  would  seem  to  have  cause  for  regret,  perhaps? 
I  suppose  you  refer  to  my  husband's  death  ?" 

Polly  nodded  rapidly,  her  upper  lip  trembling  a 
little  bit  The  situation  was  not  in  the  least  easy  for 
her. 

"I  can  fancy  it  would  mean  something  to  you." 

"A  lot,"  said  Polly  frankly,  "an  awful  lot.  But 
what's  the  use!  He  was  backing  us,  of  course,  you 
.  that — had  been  for  a  long  while.  We  wanted 
help — we're  on  our  uppers  now.  We  heard  he  was  in 
here,  and  we  came  in  ourselves  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  him  over  things.  We  were  over  on  the  railroad, 
don't  you  see?  We've  had  bad  business  all  along  for 
weeks.  The  war  knocked  us  out.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  we 
knew  nothing  about  this — we  hadn't  heard  of  any  acci- 
dent.    And  Jimmy  was  such  a  good  chap!" 

"I  presume  you  refer  to  my  husband  when  you  say 
Jimmy  ?  Yes  ?"  Marcia's  voice  was  not  only  icy,  but 
worse. 

"Well,"  resumed  Polly  uneasily,  'Tve  known  him 
for  a  long  time,  you  see." 

"I  know  all  about  the  length — and  the  nature — of 
your  acquaintance  with  my  husband,  Miss  Pendleton." 

ly  real  name  is  Amanda  Brown,"   said   1' 
calmly. 

Miss  Brown?  I  don't  know  whether  or  not 
my  husband  has  made  any  provision  for  you  in  his 
will.     I  haven't  been  made  fully  acquainted  with  the 

9N 


THE  WAY  OUT 

nature  of  his  will.  My  lawyers  have  asked  me  to 
come  back  at  once,  but  I  have  been  stopping  on  here. 
It  was  hard — I  was  not  quite  ready  to  go  away  from 
him.  He  needed  some  one  to  watch  him,  don't  you 
think? 

"Now,"  she  went  on,  "I  have  been  obliged  to  meet 
you " 

"Well/'  said  Polly,  with  a  shrug,  "we  wouldn't  have 
been  so  apt  to  meet  back  in  the  city." 

"Hardly,  I  fear' 

Polly  reddened  a  little  at  this.  "You  don't  like  me, 
Mrs.  Haddon,  do  you  ?"  said  she  directly. 

"Why  should  ir 

"That's  right — why  should  you,  when  it  comes  to 
that?  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  if  it  were  the  other 
way  about.     But  one  thing  is  sure " 

"Need  we  discuss  these  matters  at  all  ?  I  don't  see 
why.  This  whole  situation  is  not  in  the  least  of  my 
making,  or  my  liking." 

"Oh,  now,  listen,  Mrs.  Haddon!  I  know  a  lot  of 
things.  I'm  not  what  you  are — I  never  had  your 
chance.  I've  done  the  best  I  could  with  what  I  had, 
the  same  as  you,  maybe.  If  I  had  married  him  you'd 
never  have  taken  him  away  from  me!" 

"Indeed?"     Her  auditor  did  not  even  smile. 

.men  like  you,"  broke  out  Polly,  waxing  some- 
what tremulous  herself — "women  like  you  don't  know 
anything  about  women  like  me.     I  didn't  run  after 

294 


THE  UNCERTIFIED 

Jimmy  1 1 addon — he  ran  after  me.  Why  did  he? 
What  made  him?  Didn't  you  have  every  chance  in 
the  world  to  keep  him  ?  Who's  to  blame — me  or  you 
or  him — or  all  of  us?  I  wasn't  running  after  him 
so  much  even  now.  Of  course  I  didn't  know  any- 
thing about  what  has  happened,  or  I  wouldn't  have 
come." 

Marcia's  hands  were  intertwining  nervously  now. 
"Do  you  think  I  ought  to  talk  to  you  at  all  now — 
coming  here  as  you  do — following  him  absolutely  into 
his  grave  ?" 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  said  Polly,  coloring  hotly 
now.  "Maybe  I'm  not  as  bad  as  you  think — or  any- 
way, different.  If  men  drift  to  my  sort,  how  can  my 
sort  help  it?  I'm  only  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank 
my  own  self,  I  suppose.  If  it  hadn't  been  him  it  would 
have  been  someone  else,  maybe.  If  it  hadn't  been  me, 
maybe  it  would  have  been  someone  else  for  him  too — 
that's  the  way  it  goes." 

Marcia  H addon  was  looking  at  the  young  woman 
before  her  whh  a  new  and  strange  feeling  of  curiosity, 
trying  after  her  own  ancient  creed  to  be  fair,  to  be 
just.  She  was  trying  now  to  understand,  to  find  as 
much  good  as  possible  in  the  careless  self -accusation 
of  the  young  person  who  spoke  thus  artlessly  and 
directly.  But  that  young  person  went  on  now  some- 
what bitterly. 

"We're  a  good  ways  apart,  Mrs.  Haddon,  I  expect 
295 


THE  WAY  OUT 

I  hadn't  a  thing  to  start  with  but  my  laugh  and  my 
looks — they  would  have  left  me  comfortable  if  I'd 
never  met  your  husband.  If  he's  gone  now,  all  the 
better  for  me  now,  like  enough,  and  all  the  better  for 
him — and  maybe  for  you  too.  You  don't  know  about 
my  sort.  Well,  I  don't  ask  that  of  you.  There's  milk, 
and  fresh  milk,  and  bottled  milk,  and  certified  bottled 
milk.  You're  strictly  respectable — you're  certified — 
you're  the  sort  that's  been  taken  care  of  all  their  lives. 
Me — I'm  uncertified,  I  guess.  It  doesn't  make  much 
difference  to  anybody  now,  does  it?  I  told — him — an- 
other man — I  was  going  over  with  the  Red  Cross." 

Still  striving  to  be  just  in  spite  of  all,  Marcia  Had- 
don  held  her  speech,  looking  gravely  at  the  other,  who 
now  went  on,  unsparing  alike  of  herself  and  her 
hearer. 

"It's  late  to  give  you  a  tip  about  how  to  handle  a 
husband — but  I  could  have " 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "I'm  afraid 
there's  nothing  you  can  do  for  me.  I'm  afraid — well, 
I  suppose  I  ought  to  try  to  be  fair,  even  now."  She 
could  not  refer  directly  in  speech  to  the  relations  be- 
tween the  dead  yonder  and  the  living  here. 

"That  never  gets  anybody  very  much,"  said  Polly 
Pendleton.  "You  remind  me  of  that  chap  that  came 
into  my  place  in  New  York — Joslin,  his  name  was — 
he's  the  grandson  of  this  old  lady  that  brought  us  in 
here!" 

296 


THE  UNCERTIFIED 

Now  for  the  first  time  the  slow  red  of  anger  rose 
to  Marcia  Haddon's  face. 

"I  think  you've  said  quite  sufficient  about  that  and 
many  other  matters,"  said  she.  "You  certainly  can't 
discuss  Mr.  Joslin  with  me — I'll  not  have  it.  In  fact, 
I'm  not  sure  that  you  can  discuss  anything  with  me 
any  longer. 

"I've  asked  no  odds  of  you,"  she  flared  out,  at  last 
ou  took  my  husband  from  me,  you  took  my  leav- 
ings— there  was  nothing  about  him  that  I  cared  for 
any  more.  Anything  worth  trying  for — anything 
worth  fighting  for — why,  yes — I  don't  know  that  I'd 
need  fear  you  so  much.  You  came  into  my  life  not 
by  my  invitation,  but  I'm  not  so  sure  you  need  ask 
me  so  much  for  forgiveness.  What  have  I  to  for- 
give— or  you  ?  He's  dead  now — he's  gone  from  both 
of  us.     You're  welcome  to  what  you  ha 

Her  gaze  unconsciously  passed  beyond  the  window, 
up  to  the  hillside  where  lay  a  little  mound,  a  rude  stone 
at  the  head. 

"We'll  not  say  anything  evil  about  him  now — more 
than  we  have.  He's  found  the  way  out,  even  if  we 
haven't  as  yet  for  ourselves.  Our  ways  must  part, 
of  course.  But  you  can't  advise  me  and  you  can't 
glory  over  me.  You've  had  my  leavings.  Is  that 
quite  plain  ? 

"And  now  the  way  is  plain  for  all  of  us — at  last." 
Her  voice  was  trembling. 


THE  WAY  OUT 

It  was  like  Marcia  Haddnn  to  stand  erect,  her  fea- 
tures controlled,  though  tears  dropped  from  her  eyes. 
And  it  was  like  Polly  Pendleton  to  grasp  both  her 
hands  and  K:ss  her,  when,  sobbing,  she  fumbled  for  her 
small  bek  .«^ngs  as  she  turned  to  go. 


CHAPTER   XXVII 


THE    SEEKING 


THE  unusual  sounds  of  the  street  still  came  to 
the  ears  of  all  in  the  little  village,  but  Marcia 
Haddon,  agitated,  held  to  her  own  room  and 
tried  to  rest,  to  forget.  She  was  aroused  by  the  sud- 
den advent  of  Granny  Williams  herself. 

"Come  on  out  here,  Ma'am,"  said  that  worthy.  "I 
want  ye  to  meet  Davy's  granny — old  Granny  Joslin. 
She's  come  down  to  talk  things  over  today.  Them  two 
young  wimmern  has  went  away.  They  said  they 
couldn't  stay,  so  I  sont  'em  over  to  the  blacksmith's 
to  stop.  So  set  down  an'  talk  to  Davy's  granny, 
Ma'am." 

Marcia  was  not  prepared  for  the  vision  that  met 
her  gaze.  Old  Granny  Joslin  was  old,  very  much  older 
even  than  Granny  Williams,  more  bent,  less  active, 
more  afflicted  by  the  blows  of  life  and  fate.  Indeed, 
of  late,  Granny  Joslin  had  seemed  to  all  scarce  so 
savage  as  of  old,  a  trifle  more  bent  than  she  had 
been  in  all  her  life  before.  Her  eye  was  less  fierce,  as 
now  she  took  the  young  woman's  hand  in  her  own 
iv.  horny  palm  and  looked  into  her  eyes  as  straight 
as  a  hawk  might. 

299 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"So  ye  air  the  furrin  womern  that  Davy  tolt  me 
about,"  said  she.  "Well,  ve're  right  purty,  that's 
shop 

"Hain't  she,  though!"  affirmed  Granny  Williams. 
"Hain't  she,  though' — an'  gittin'  purtier  right  along. 
If  only  she'd  taken  a  few  doses  of  camomile  an'  sage, 
I'd  'a'  had  her  ready  by  now  so's  she  could  do  a  day's 
work.  She's  powerful  trifiin',  Granny."  Even  old 
women  called  Granny  Joslin  "Granny,"  for  she  was 
older  than  the  oldest  of  them. 

But  Granny  Joslin  for  some  reason  seemed  softened 
quite  beyond  her  wont.  "I'm  glad  to  see  ye,  Ma'am," 
said  she.  "I'm  sorry  ye  lost  yore  man  down  at  the 
Narrers.  Hit's  a  powerful  mean  place  fer  a  man  to 
git  in — thar's  a  heap  of  graves  around  thar — men 
lost  from  the  rafts  at  the  Narrers.  Davy's  tolt  me, 
many's  the  time." 

Marcia  Haddon  did  not  make  any  response. 

"Davy  tolt  me  all  about  ye,  too,"  continued  the 
old  woman.  "I  know  ye  must  be  moughty  lonesome 
in  here.     When  air  ye  goin'  back,  Ma'am?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Marcia  Haddon.  "I've  been 
here  longer  than  I  had  planned — I  ought  to  go  any 
time — I  must  go  now." 

"Did  ye  hear  the  playin'  in  the  street  right  now?" 
asked  the  old  woman  suddenly.  "Has  the  war  came 
up  North  as  well  as  here?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Joslin.    It's  an  awful,  awful  thing." 

300 


THE   SEEKING 

''Well,  I  don't  know,"  rejoined  that  worthy  dame. 
"Men  jest  has  to  do  a  sartin  amount  of  fightin'  ary- 
ways,  an*  now  they  kin  git  plenty.  They'd  orter. 
Davy  was  the  head  man  of  our  fam'ly  ontel  he  went 
away,  an'  then  Chan  Bullock,  he  taken  it  on — an*  now 
not  even  Chan  seems  to  hev  ary  bit  of  sand  left. 
Ma'am,  he's  been  livin'  right  along  here,  they  tell  me, 
sleepin'  right  alongside  of  old  Absalom  Gannt,  an*  he 
nuvver  got  him  yit ! 

"I  jest  sort  of  wandered  in  town  today  to  see  what 
I  could  do  my  own  self.  An'  now  what  do  I  see? 
Why,  old  Absalom  Gannt  an'  David  Joslin  an*  Chan 
Bullock  a-marchin'  down  the  street  arm  in  arm,  ye 
mought  say,  follerin'  the  music!  What  kin  I  do?  I 
say,  the  war  it's  a  massy — jest  so  old  Absalom  gits 
killed  somewhar,  I  don't  keer  how  it  happens!" 

"  They're  brave  men,"  said  Marcia  Haddon,  her 
eyes  suddenly  kindling.  "Why,  look  what  he  did — 
your  grandson — down  there  at  the  Narrows." 

"Well,  he  anyways  saved  the  corp,"  assented  Granny 
Joslin,  nodding.  "Like  enough  couldn't  no  man  of 
done  much  more'n  that." 

"Davy's  a-goin  'out,  I  reckon,"  said  Granny  Wil- 
liams now,  reaching  for  a  coal  for  her  pipe,  and  offer- 
ing it  in  turn  to  the  other  old  dame,  still  held  between 
the  tips  of  her  horny  fingers. 

"Of  course  he'll  go,"  grumbled  his  granddam. 
"Joslins  kain't  stay  out'n  ary  war.     I  reckon  that'll 

301 


THE  WAY  OUT 

put  a  stop  to  his  colledge  up  on  the  hill,  huh?  We  got 
to  wait  now  till  we  lick  them  Dutch  a-plenty — they 
tell  me  it's  the  Dutch  we're  a-goin'  to  fight." 

"If  thar  ever  was  any  talk  that  Davy  was  a-skeered," 
commented  Granny  Williams  presently,  "I  reckon  it'll 
.be  stopped  nov, 

"Nobody  but  a  fool  would  ever  say  a  Joslin  was 
eered  of  arything!"  broke  out  the  other  old  dame 
fiercely.  "If  he  was  a-skeered,  would  he  of  done  called 
them  people  together  down  at  the  mill  house  a  purpose 
to  taken  a  shot  at  him  if  they  wanted  ter?  If  he 
a-skeered,  would  he  of  went  up  to  the  door  of  the 
stillhouse,  come  two  year  back,  an*  called  old  Absalom 
out?  Only  pity  is  he  didn't  kill  Absalom  then — well, 
as  I  -aid.  jest  so  Absalom  gits  killed  some  way,  I  hain't 
no  wise  pertic'lar." 

"That's  right,  Granny,"  nodded  Granny  Williams 
with  approval,  shifting  her  cob  pipe  to  her  hand. 
"That's  the  proper  sperrit  of  a  Christian.  An'  I  like 
to  hear  ye  say  it  thataway." 

"Well,"  she  went  on,  sighing,  "our  own  fam'ly 
hain't  got  skercely  a  quarl  left  no  more,  sence  my  son 
Andy  kilt  the  last  Purrin  over  on  Newfound  a  few 
year  back.  If  I  was  sitiwated  like  ye  air,  Granny, 
I'd  feel  jest  the  same  as  ye  do.  I  kin  forgive  all  them 
Purrin  >  now  jest  as  easy  as  not — sence  they're  all  daid. 
Forgiveness  is  what  they  preach  in  the  church  house 

"But  now,  Granny" — as  the  older  woman  sat  star- 
302 


THE   SEEKING 

ing  moodily  into  the  fire — "how  come  hit  that  yore 
Davy  hain't  nuvver  had  no  speakin'  yit  down  to  the 
church  house  at  the  Creek?  We're  jest  perishin'  in 
here  fer  some  right  good  preachin'.  Onct  in  a  while 
Preacher  Bonnell  he  opens  a  meetin'  fer  three  or  four 
days,  an*  sometimes  Old  Man  Parkins  from  up  Red- 
bird,  he  comes  round  here  in  his  circuit.  An'  thar's 
a  young  man  over  in  Leslie  that  they  say  is  right  prom-, 
isin',  an'  he  mought  come  over  afore  long.  But  thar 
hain't  been  to  say  no  religious  awakcniri  in  here,  so 
to  speak,  fer  a  long  time.  An*  Davy — ye  know  he 
started  out  fer  to  be  a  preacher,  him  with  his  education 
an'  all.    Why  don't  he  preach?" 

"Yes,  why  don't  he?"  demanded  Granny  Joslin  sav- 
agely. "I  taken  that  all  up  with  Davy,  an*  I  kain't  do 
a  damn  thing  with  him.  He  says — well,  what  do  you- 
all  think  he  says  to  me?" 

"I  kain't  guess,"  said  Granny  Williams.  "He's  al- 
ways been  odd." 

"He  says  he  ain't  good  enough  to  preach!"  ex- 
claimed the  fierce  old  woman  who  turned  towards  her. 
"lie  says,  'I  hain't  got  my  edication  yit/  says  he  to 

OT.A     " 

me. 

"Men  is  natural  cantankerous,"  said  Granny  Wil- 
liams, nodding  her  head  sagely.  "Why  the  Lord  made 
'em  that  way,  the  Lord  only  knows." 

"Davy  won't  have  no  chance  to  preach  anyhow  if 
he  goes  to  the  war,"   resumed  Granny  Joslin.     "I 

BOi 


THE   WAY  OUT 

reckon  the  school'll  all  go  to  hell  now.  Has  he  said 
ary  thing  to  ye  about  the  school,  Ma'am  ?"  She  turned 
suddenly  now  to  Marcia  Haddon. 

"No,"  rejoined  that  individual,  somewhat  startled; 
"nothing  at  all.     I've  not  seen  him  for  several  days." 

"He  tolt  me  ye  was  the  wife  of  the  man  that  owned 
the  Company — an*  the  Company  owns  all  this  land  in 
here.  Well,  like  I  said,  I  reckon  that  school'll  have 
to  go  to  hell  now — an*  yit  we  certainly  did  need  it — 
that  school.  Hit  was — our  school,  the  fustest  in  the 
Cumberlands." 

Marcia  Haddon  vouchsafed  no  comment,  and  pres- 
ently old  Granny  Joslin  rose. 

"Well,  I  got  to  be  gittin'  on,  Sarah  Alice,"  said  she 
to  her  friend.  "I  want  to  find  Davy  somewhar — I've 
brung  him  down  some  caraway  cookies.  He  always 
liked  'em.  An'  I  brung  him  a  clean  handkerchief — 
he's  got  to  have  a  heap  of  things  if  he's  a-goin'  off 
ter  the  war.  I  don't  know  who  them  Dutch  air — fer's 
I  know  thar  hain't  no  Dutch  in  these  mountings  no- 
ways— but  if  we've  got  to  lick  'em,  I  reckon  we'd  just 
as  well  be  about  it.  Damn  'em  anyways,  whoever  they 
air!"  With  which  candid  comment  she  hobbled  on 
out  the  door,  and  never  gave  a  parting  glance  as  she 
faced  up  the  street  and  started  for  her  cabin  home. 

Granny  Williams  looked  through  the  window  after 
her  departing  guest.  "Ho  hum!"  said  she.  "Thar 
goes  the  last  of  the  Joslins — of  the  real  Joslins.     She 

304 


THE   SEEKING 

was  the  fightin'est  one  of  'em  all,  but  she  alius  was  a 
good  Christian  womern." 

"Why  hain't  Davy  come  down  here  no  more  lately, 
Ma'am?"  she  asked  suddenly  of  her  silent  guest. 

•  i  don't  know  in  the  least,"  replied  Marcia  Haddon. 
"Does  it  matter?"  Then,  relenting:  "I  wish  he 
would  come !  I  ought  to  see  him  before  he  goes  away, 
or  before  I  go." 

"Why?"  asked  Granny  Williams  directly. 

"I've  got  to  be  going.  I'm  a  widow,  you  see,  now, 
Granny — I'm  alone!    I've  been  thinking  a  good  deal." 

'What  ye  been  tninkin',  child?" 

Marcia  Haddon,  with  a  strange  humility,  laid  one  of 
her  soft  white  hands  upon  the  wrinkled  one  reposing 
in  the  old  dame's  lap.  "I'll  tell  you — I've  been  think- 
ing about  that  little  child  we  met  up  there  in  the  cave." 

The  old  woman  nodded. 

"What  will  that  child  and  all  the  others  do  if  the 
school  stops?" 

"Oh,  Davy'll  come  back,"  said  Granny  Williams — 
"he's  got  to  come  back." 

"If  we  had  buildings,  and  teachers,  and  everything," 
mused  her  guest,  "we  could  take  care  of  any  number." 

"Ilit'd  be  a  powerful  fine  thing  for  everybody." 
said  Granny  Williams  after  a  time  of  silence.  "Now, 
Davy — he's  so  odd,  Ma'am.  I've  seen  Davy  Joslin 
set  like  he  was  in  a  dream.  If  only  men  wasn't  so 
cantankerous !" 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 

THE  EDUCATION  OF  DAVID  JOSLIN 

THE  hours  dragged  leaden  for  the  women, 
cooped  up,  silent,  as  in  the  old  block-house 
days,  but  for  the  men  the  great  adventure  of 
going  out  to  war,  born  in  their  ancient  Highland  blood, 
sped  the  time  rapidly  enough.  It  cost  a  certain  reso- 
lution on  the  part  of  David  Joslin  to  call  upon  the 
"furrin  woman,"  but  now  he  must  say  good-by. 
Therefore  in  time  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Granny 
Williams'  log  house. 

Marcia  Haddon  herself  met  him,  as  though  she  had 
sent  for  him.  "Come,"  said  she.  But  she  led  him 
not  into  the  house  itself. 

He  walked  at  her  side,  silent,  as  she  directed  her 
footsteps  toward  the  little  steps  cut  into  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  They  sat  here,  both  looking  out  now  across 
the  valley  to  the  hills  beyond. 

The  woman's  gray  eyes  were  wistful  and  sad.  The 
eyes  of  the  man,  resting  everywhere  but  upon  her  face, 
were  also  sad.  He  did  not  turn  to  look  at  her  at  all — 
apparently  did  not  note  the  increasing  goodliness  of 
her  figure  and  her  rounder  contours,  the  browner  col- 

306 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   DAVID 

oring  of  her  cheek.  She  was  a  very  comely  woman, 
Marcia  Haddon,  young,  but  wiser  than  she  once  had 
been — more  impulsive  also,  less  cold,  less  reserved.  It 
was  as  though  she  entered  a  new  stage  of  womanhood, 
as  yet  denied  her  in  her  chill  years  of  self -repression. 
Never  until  now  had  she  really  known  the  awakening 
of  woman.  Virginal,  warming,  fluttering,  she  was  not 
married  woman  or  widow  now ;  she  was  a  girl,  a  girl 
at  the  brink  of  life.  Oh!  how  vast  and  sweet  the 
revealing  Plan  seemed  now  to  her. 

"Well,  you're  going  out,"  said  she  at  last,  the  first 
to  break  the  silence. 

"Yes,  I'm  going  out."  His  voice  was  low  and  deep. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  now  for  the  first  time  real- 
ized its  even  vibrancy. 

At  last :  "What  will  become  of  the  work  here?"  she 
began. 

"I  can't  tell  as  to  that,  Mrs.  Haddon,"  said  he.  "It 
must  wait."     She  made  no  reply,  and  he  went  on : 

"You  see,  all  my  life  has  been  pretty  much  the  same 
thing.  I've  always  had  to  look  ahead  and  did  not  dare 
look  at  things  between.  Once  this  school  up  here  on 
the  hill  was  all  I  looked  at — and  there  wasn't  any- 
thing between.  There's  other  work  afoot  that's  even 
bigger,  now.    Maybe  after  that  I'll  be  fit  for  this." 

"You've  done  wonderfully  well.  It's  scarce  less 
than  a  miracle — how  you've  got  on." 

"At  least  I've  told  you  all  about  myself,"  said  he 
307 


THE  WAY  OUT 

after  a  time.  "I've  nothing  more  to  say — now  or  at 
any  other  time." 

"You  need  say  nothing,"  she  rejoined.  "Life  goes 
hard  for  all  of  us  sometimes."  She  was  conscious  of 
her  banality,  but  found  herself,  as  so  often,  dumb  in 
her  largest  emotions. 

"It  was  a  hard  enough  start,"  he  assented.  "It's 
hard  enough  for  all  of  us  in  here.    I'm  not  so  old." 

"No.  You  only  seem  old  to  me.  I  suppose  that's 
because  you  have  had  to  do  so  much  in  so  short  a  time. 
But  I'm  older,  too.  It's  a  sad  country — did  you  ever 
stop  to  think  how  few  people  smile,  down  here  in  these 
mountains  ?" 

"Yes,  I  know;  and  you  know,  now.  Well,  I  sup- 
pose you'll  go  away  and  forget  us.  We've  been  for- 
gotten, more  than  a  hundred  years.  That's  hard — to 
be  forgotten." 

"Do  you  think  that  of  me?"  she  said,  still  staring 
straight  down  the  valley. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  think  of  you,"  said  he,  de- 
liberately. "You  are  not  like  any  woman  I  ever 
knew."  He  flushed,  suddenly  remembering  he  had  told 
her  he  never  had  known  but  three  women  in  his  life. 

"Well,  be  fair,  at  least.  Be  sure  you  know  my 
point  of  view.  This  work  ought  not  to  stop."  She 
was  trying  to  look  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"The  Lord  has  built  that  building  up  on  the  hill, 
Mrs.  Haddon,"  answered  David  Joslin.    "I  suppose  the 

308 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   DAVID 

Lord  will  continue  it  or  destroy  it.     Blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord." 

She  half  turned  her  face  toward  him  now  as  she 
replied. 

"I've  told  you  IVe  been  a  useless  woman  all  my 

life.    Well,  just  the  other  day  I  saw  a  child — a  little 

child,  out  in  the  hills — it  lived  wild,  in  a  cave.    I  held. 

and  right  in  mine,  this  way — don't  you  see?    And 

,  I  thought,  there  were  hundreds  of  them — hun- 

.  all  through  these  hills."    She  was  flushing. 

<fYes,"  said  he ;  "many  hundreds." 

"Then  I  thought  of  the  money  that's  mine  that 
maybe  oughtn't  all  to  be  mine.  You  see,  I've  counsel 
— lawyers — that  sort  of  thing — men  who  would  help 
me  in  anything  I  asked.  Suppose  we  had  some  more 
buildings,  and  plenty  of  teachers  after  a  time?" 

He  did  not  make  any  answer  at  all,  and  she  was 
obliged  to  go  on  unaided. 

"In  this  awful  time  of  the  world,  Mr.  Joslin,"  said 
she,  "everyone  ought  to  be  useful.  We'll  need  more 
good  citizens  in  America.  All  of  us  women  oug. 
work  in  some  way.  The  country  must  go  on,  until 
c  won.  Where  could  I  be  more  useful  than  here? 
Don't  you  think  I  could  keep  the  work  going  some 
way  until — until  you  came  back,  David  Joslin?" 

Still  he  did  not  answer,  and  still  she  went  on, 
struggling  somewhat  desperately  with  his  native  reti- 
cence and  her  own. 

309 


THE   WAY  OUT 

"Why,  they  say  this  is  a  war  for  democracy,  don't 
you  know?  And  where  could  we  fight  better  for 
democracy?  Wasn't  that  your  ambition — wasn't  that 
your  dream 

"Yes!"  suddenly  he  exclaimed,  hoarsely.  "That 
was  my  dream !  You  know  how  it  ended — you  know 
why.     I  killed  my  own  school,  you  know  h< 

"Yes — you've  spoken  very  freely.  It's  just  as  well. 
These  are  days  when  there's  no  time  to  be  lost.  And 
I'd  like  you  to  know,  at  least  how  much  I've  mar- 
veled at  what  you've  done." 

"Marveled!"  said  he.  "It's  I  who  have  marveled. 
But  what  you  say — if  you  could  keep  the  school  going 
— why,  that's  a  miracle 

"Well,"  said  Marcia  Haddon  quietly,  "you've  always 
spoken  of  miracles  as  matter  of  course." 

"Maybe  we'd  better  not  talk  much  more,"  said  he 
after  a  time,  long  silences  seeming  natural  now.  "I 
told  you  I  wasn't  through.  I've  sinned,  and  I'll  re- 
pent. I'm  ignorant — but  I'm  going  out  now  to  get  the 
rest  of  my  education.  If  I  am  spared  .  .  .  some  time 
.  .  .  I've  told  you  about  the  other  woman  up  there," 
he  finished,  anguished.     "As  you  know — she's  dead." 

"Is  she  dead  forever,  David  Joslin?"  asked  Marcia 
Haddon  quietly.  The  color  in  her  own  cheek  was 
warm. 

"Yes,  forever.  And  I'll  not  speak  any  ill  of  her 
memory." 

310 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   UAVlD 

"Nor  I  of  the  memory  of  the  man  that's  dead," 
jaid  she  slowly.     "It's  life,  I  suppose." 

that's  life!  And  I  want  it — all,  every  bit  of 
it.  all  that  any  man  ever  coveted  or  had — all  of  a  man's 
dues  in  life.     Yes,  I  want  it — all!" 

He  spoke  now  with  a  sudden  fierceness,  his  gray 
eyes  aflame  in  a  way  she  had  not  seen,  that  indom- 
itableness  of  the  inner  man  now  showing  through 
as  never  yet  she  had  seen  him,  so  that  she  felt  a  thrill, 
a  shock,  as  of  some  vast,  measureless  dynamo  of 
power  suddenly  awaking.  "All  life  is  the  same  thing. 
It's  all  an  education,  all  a  growing — God!  Give  me 
chance  to  grow!  Let  me  get  ready,  so  I  can 
deserve.  I've  been  hungry  all  my  life — hungry  for  the 
world — hungry  for  my  education — hungry  for  all  a 
man's  life — love,  happiness,  content,  power,  useful- 
ness. I'm  hungry  for  this  war,  even,  because  I  know 
it  will  teach  me  something  or  leave  me  at  last  at  peace. 
I've  not  known  peace.  I've  lived  in  torment — I'm  in 
torment  now.  But  I'll  come  back  bigger  and  better 
if  I  ever  come  back  at  all.     Life — why,  life " 

He  halted,  his  drawn  brows  turned  away. 

"That  little  child  that  came  up  to  me,"  began  Marcia 
Haddon  hastily,  as  though  irrelevantly — "if  I  could 
do  something  in  the  meantime — while  you  were  out 
there — why,  I'd  be  the  happiest  woman  in  all  the 
world  Yes,  I!  And  I'd  said  good-by  to  happiness, 
the  same  as  you.*'     Her  eyes  were  soft  now. 

811 


THE  WAY  OUT 

"If  I  thought  that  could  be,"  he  answered  slowly, 
Td  know  the  end  even  of  this  war — I'd  know  the 
end  of  my  own  fight — I'd  know  that  justice  and  good 
do  triumph  over  all  and  through  all.  Oh,  what  a 
dream!  And  for  my  people — the  forgotten,  the 
mocked,  the  helpless  ones.     If  I — if  you  and  I " 

"I'm  going  now,"  he  concluded,  long  later.  "These 
are  things  in  which  I  can't  give  you  counsel.  You're 
the  one  real  woman  I  ever  knew  in  all  my  narrow 
life — the  one  real  woman.  I  reckon  I've  seen  them  all 
now.  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that,  before  I  went  away — 
I  had  to  tell  you!  If  only  I  had  lived  so  that  you 
wouldn't  think  so  ill  of  me.  Oh,  my  God!  Always 
I  do  the  evil  thing  when  I  would  do  the  right.  I'm  so 
impatient.     It's  so  hard  for  me  to  be  patient  now." 

He  rose  and  stood  facing  straight  ahead.  The  twi- 
light now  was  falling  softly  upon  the  hills.  Sounds 
came  from  the  street  below — sounds  unwelcome. 

"Good-by,"  said  he,  suddenly.  "I'll  love  you  all  my 
life!" 

"Going?"  Her  voice  seemed  not  yet  to  accept  it 
after  all.  She  half  raised  a  hand.  The  blood  of  her 
cheek  surged  back. 

"Yes — to  finish  my  education !" 

He  stalked  away,  never  looking  back. 

She  sat  alone  now,  still  gazing  out  across  the  hills, 
it  a  new  and  wider  world  than  any  she  had  ever 
known. 

312 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   DAVID 

The  sounds  on  the  street  below  became  more  audi- 
ble, wafted  by  a  change  in  the  evening  air.  She  knew 
that  there  was  forming  yonder  a  procession  of  men 
who  presently  would  pass  out  around  the  shoulder  of 
the  hill  at  the  end  of  the  street.  And  then  at  last  she 
heard  fully  the  throb  of  the  drum,  the  keening  of  the 
fife.  The  men  of  the  Cumberlands  were  marching  out 
into  the  world.  He  was  at  their  head — going  out  for 
his  ordeal,  going  out  to  grow,  to  get  re^dy — to  deserve, 
as  he  had  said.  What  a  man  he  would  be — what  a 
man  he  was! 

Marcia  Haddon  suddenly  reached  out  her  arms,  her 
gesture  following  the  marching  men,  as  though  some- 
thing of  her  own  had  gone  out  with  them.  She  sat, 
until  she  knew  not  whether  she  heard  the  throb  of  a 
passing  drum  or  felt  the  pulse  of  a  new  heart,  beating 
high  and  strong.  Her  Work  lay  at  hand — out  there, 
on  the  hills  where  the  gaunt  buildings  grew.  And  on 
ahead — was  it  Life,  as  sweet  as  it  was  earnest  and 
compelling,  that  rested  yonder — on  the  heights  ahead  ? 

(ft 


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